Places go; memory lives.

My favorite place in the world no longer exists. And although it is gone, I carry the memory of it in my mind and in my heart.

My favorite place in the world is our old house. It is where I lived for a good nineteen years of my life.

I was literally born in that house. I was born in the early 70s, on a Holy Saturday. It was in the middle of the day when I was born. Coincidentally, I am also a middle child so there was not really a lot of recollection during my birth. There was no trip to the hospital, no counting of contractions, no labor pains. My mother told me it was an easy birth. Yes it was easy… and forgettable.

Our old house was where I learned to walk, talk, read, and write. It was all where my upbringing as a child took place and where my personality is molded. My memories of childhood are deeply connected to that house.

Our house was my playground. I remember sliding in the staircase, climbing the walls, and hiding in the built-in closet. Aside from hide-and-seek games, my siblings and I played pretend grown-up roles. We utilized the whole house for our make-believe office (our parents were both working as office employees).

At times, my sisters and I would exchange made-up stories. We would draw images of man and woman and develop their characters from our imagination. I remember making up the characters of Chris and Tony, two people who are in love with each other. I wondered what happened to them all these years after I relinquished their souls and never bothered them again.

As I grew up into a teenager, the house got old with me. I saw its colors fade with the passing of time. The wood lost its luster, the floors began to crack, and the walls started chipping. Once, our house stood proud in the community, well-built and tough, even in times of storm. But years of neglect had turn it into a dump.

I remember the last time I saw our old house, it was six years ago. I passed it by and was taken by disbelief of how sad it looked. It was in shambles. It was to me like an old friend that I had not seen for a long time and could not connect with. I was afraid to even stop and get in. Like going inside would reveal that there is really nothing left in it – only a muddle of timber and concrete. It was my home but now it was vaguely, a house.

Seven months ago, my husband and I bought our own house and we have been creating memories in it. Although I know we will not live there forever, I know better that home is where the heart is. And with my loved ones with me, I will never ever be “homeless.”