The House That Built Me

Swing

I pulled up the long drive to the small house, a memory sprang into my mind….

I stood in front of a rock, my six year old self holding a bat as I prepared to swing, my mom stood a few feet away from me with the baseball in her hand. I grinned as she looked at me seriously, going to throw the ball.

She threw the ball gracefully, her twenty three year old self grinning as I go to swing. Her blonde hair in a high pony tail, skin tan from the years on her parents farm, and brown eyes shinning with happiness. At that point she was the most beautiful and strong person I have ever seen, yet at eighteen I still believe that.

I swung at the small white ball, completely missing it as my body swung around in a circle. Falling on my butt, making me laugh as she ran to me. Like any other mother would, she checked to make sure nothing was hurt, yet once she noticed I was fine she giggled. The giggle was one I always heard when I was younger, it took a while for her to fully laugh.

But, I still got back up on my feet and played the game, hitting my first ball that day. And from that day, hitting my first baseball, it became a weekly thing to play in the hot heat of Texas. At recess at school I would never play because it would always be our thing.

Listing to an old radio as she cheered me on from out little pitchers mound as I ran all four cloth bases. Those are the days I cherished and the days where life was simple, the life that any six year old would want…..

I came back from the memory as I parked the car, smiling as I looked at the small white house that I used to call home.

I knew this is exactly where I needed to come.