ImageImageThe townhouse is the closest place I have to a “childhood home,” simply because we lived there the longest of any place. There was the house in Shoreview with the apple tree, the two houses in Europe, one with the windy staircase and one with the big yard and huge cobwebs, the house in Big Lake with the giant hill, and then the townhouse, which we saw built from the ground up. We moved there when I was in eighth grade and I remember not being happy about it, because it meant moving like an hour away from the very few friends I had.  A lot happened in that townhouse.

It was where we lived when we started high school, where I dragged myself out of bed every morning when it was still dark, and where I had to put on a school uniform I loathed with every fiber of my being. It was where we went on countless walks around the development, where we biked and rollerbladed. It was where we were when I decided I needed help and I was officially diagnosed with depression. It was where we brought Yoshi from his breeder and where he sat on the porch and barked at everything. It was here that I held hands with my first boyfriend, and where Chris and I took our engagement pictures. My friends threw me a sweet sixteen surprise party. My family had holiday celebrations here with my mom’s twin sister and her family, it was here that I decided I was going to be a writer, not a lawyer, and where I had long conversations with my dad about politics and the future.

I’ve always known my parents would move and since we moved relatively frequently, I’ve never been super sentimental about places. Still though, a lot of memories happened between these walls, and it’s important to reflect on them. The future is still ahead, and there are new memories waiting to be made.

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