My Childhood home

Last week I would have called my childhood home just "my home."  But I can't say that anymore.

My parents are moving.  They are moving to one city over, which is about 10 minutes away from my old house, but they are still moving.  The last time they moved was in 1996.  I was three years old.  That is the house we have lived in ever since.

I remember three things about the old house: there was a house that looked like an igloo, and a big blue house that triplets lived in. They owned a gumball machine.

Every memory besides those were made while I was living in the white brick house across from the mountain.

When I went home last weekend, it didn't occur to me that it would be the last time seeing my home while I could still consider it my own.  The next time I would come home was thanksgiving, and by that point "home" will be my sister's house in South Jordan until construction on the new house is done.

As I was pulling out of the driveway, on my way back to Provo, it hit me: I was pulling out of it for the last time.  I began to cry, as I internally waved from the backseat, whispering goodbyes to my childhood home.

If I didn't live in my childhood home anymore, I must not be a child anymore.