“I know they say you can’t go home again. I just had to come back one last time. Ma'am I know you don't know me from Adam. But these hand prints on the front steps are mine.” -Miranda Lambert, "The House that Built Me"

Okay, so they’re not really sealed forever in the concrete, but my hands are there; permanently imprinted on the handrail from all the times I laid them upon it over the course of 29 years. Over the course of my childhood, my chubby little fingerprints were wiped clean from every door and every pane of glass. I experienced my childhood within your walls. I spent many nights in your back bedroom over school vacations and holidays. I ran through your backyard with all of my cousins in the summer and helped pick vegetables from the garden my grandpa planted and nurtured for years.

The years went by and I grew up, but somehow you never did. Instead you seemed to shrink. I watched as my cousins and siblings got older and started their own families. Each year there were fewer and fewer places set for Christmas and Easter dinner. Time seemed to march on without our permission and eventually your interior seemed smaller and smaller. I think, looking back on it now, you never really changed, but rather the way I viewed you from the inside out did. You saw laughter at my happiest moments, excitement when I celebrated birthdays or extended family came to visit, and you saw my tears when life seemed to slip away. You saw me at my best and at my worst, but still you remained the one constant in my ever changing world.

I still remember the day of my Pa-Pa’s funeral and how everyone came through your doors to pay their respects to the wonderful man he was. I remember wondering if houses had feelings and if they did, were you as heartbroken as me. Things were pretty dismal between you and I there for a while after that day. I began to associate your walls with immense sadness and grief, but we soldiered on, you and I. Pretty soon laughter filled the rooms again and I realized that things hadn’t changed all that much. After all, my grandma was still there and was still happily cooking and baking in the kitchen, just like she always had before. And then, Ma-Ma got sick.

Her days in your kitchen became few and far between and pretty soon your walls were full of nothing but empty space because she had to leave your comfort and familiarity. She missed you every day after that and now that she has gone on to join my Pa-Pa, I miss you even more. Things just don’t seem right without your smell, your warmth, and your comfort. But I’ll be okay.

I stopped by the other day, did you know? I just wanted to see if your new owners were happy there. I wanted to know if they loved you just as much as she did and as much as I always will. They seem like nice people and that they will cherish you for just as many years as we did. I hope you find solace in that, because I do. As I was driving home that day I noticed that the rain clouds were behind me and nothing but sun lay in front of me as I made my way down the highway. That’s rather symbolic, I think. My childhood will always remain with you and that’s the way it should be. When I left you that day, I left the sadness behind. I’m moving on now and I know that Ma-Ma, Pa-Pa, and you will be proud of me for doing so.

“I thought if I could touch this place or feel it this brokenness inside me might start healing. Out here it’s like I'm someone else, I thought that maybe I could find myself. If I could walk around I swear I'll leave. Won't take nothing but a memory from the house that built me.” -Miranda Lambert, "The House that Built Me"