A house

Tonight, I'm in Colorado Springs.

It's funny how many memories can be connected with just one house. My grandparents have owned this particular home for as long as I can remember and probably even before that; countless Christmases and various summer vacations have been spent here, miniature golfing at the Putt-Putt course down the road, cracking nuts in the living room, and of course, getting as much of the family together as possible for that essential family portrait, many of which hang in positions of importance in this house.

The last time I was here, I was spending only a night before a long road trip back to Dana Point, California. I was preoccupied with thoughts of "major" social events I was missing, a church choir program and several all-important date nights in particular. (In fact, I was so consumed by those thoughts that I even forgot to notice the brand-new shelving unit in the living room.)

A house can measure your growth just like those enormous rulers your parents used to draw on the back of your bedroom door. Every time you enter a house, all the feelings you felt the last time you were there welcome you at the entrance, and for a slight moment, you're exactly the same person you were two years ago.