My home is to be made of stone, a foundation as firm as my mother. There will be a garden within it's walls, daisies and lavender permeating the halls. I wish for the smell of freshly baked bread to make it's home on my clothes. Books lining the walls, shelves so high, that you need two ladders to reach them. The backyard will have cows roaming among the sweet, tall grass, producing creamy milk for coffee or tea or something else, even. The woods will be my backyard, the river my pool, the lily pads my flotation devices. The windows will be pristine and well scrubbed with no hint of dirt in the corners. In the attic, old books will be piled until they reach the ceiling, brushing the dusty beams in desperate need of a deep clean. A spider will roost in one dark corner away from the light, spinning complicated silver patterns, chuckling to herself. The trails in the woods will be my path to school. I will walk next to trees sprouting various colors, salmon in the fall, gnarled branches against a fine sheet of fluffy snow like tiny diamonds, and a vibrant green in the summer and spring, a parade of colors surrounding their older siblings, the trees. My neighbor will wave to me from her porch, the sun on her face, a pale yellow substance in a glass that shines like crystal, stretched out towards me as an offering. In the evenings I will sit on the back porch, watching the sun set behind the dark blue silhouette of the mountains, the navy joining the bright and violent color pallet of the sky.
