On  a corner lot in an unfrequented small neighborhood, sat a pale yellow house with egg-white trim. Its black shutters were chipped around the corners and the hardwood floors creaked when stepped on. The doors slammed every time they were opened or closed and the wallpaper peels on the edges. It is easy to hear these details and envision an unsightly house with numerous tasks to be done and areas to be fixed. My childhood house, despite what I initially told you, wasn't rundown, not in the slightest. In fact, my mother prided herself on her interior design and ability to adorn her house despite her nine to five job. But it wasn't my mother’s expert design or the questionable yellow and white exterior that continuously draws me back to the house. Now that I think about it, it wasn't even the house itself. It was the countless joyful memories I had made with my father, sister and mother within the walls of the pale yellow house. My family is the reason, even now, my former house means so much to me. 

When I was eight years old,  I begged my dad for a pool. He always had an excuse whether it be maintenance or space, etc. After lots of prying, we compromised on a Koi fish pond, which now looking back, seems just as absurd. A week turned into three, before the pond was done and I could not have been more thrilled. However, within a week, the birds became obsessed with our new backyard addition and all the Koi fish mysteriously disappeared. The next morning, my father went to cover the pond up. Even now, there is a patch of dirt that sits in dejection in the middle of the yard.​ Though to some, this patch of dead dirt seems like a flaw, it never was for me. For me, it was a reminder of the love and dedication my dad had for me.

When I was six years old, my sister and I had an addiction to Just Dance, a dance video game that swept the nation. Every day after school, my sister and I would fight over the remote to see who would play Just Dance first. One particular day, the remote slipped out of my sister’s hand, smacking the white paneled walls. As we observed closer, the wall now obtained a small dent. Yet another “flaw” added on top of the others. Just the same, I didn't see this small dent as such. In fact, everyday as I passed, I would smile and reminisce on the times my sister and I spent together, caring about nothing more than the comfort of each other and a dancing video game. 

When I was fourteen, my mom decided I should learn how to drive. I must have driven her Toyota Camry in circles around the small unfrequented neighborhood twenty times before she decided I was ready to try something new. The next challenge for me was backing out of parking spots. Our driveway was lined with a short brick wall that was mostly engulfed by thick ivy.  Driving down this path was no easy task and as I warily put the car into reverse, the true difficulty started to show. It took little time for me to back the car straight into the brick wall causing part of the wall to topple over. Though my mother tried to guise her emotions, I could tell she was furious. She then told me to try again. To this day, the chipped bricks are still on the ground. In my mind, the flawed brick wall was a reminder of the first time I drove, but also a reminder of a time my mother didn't give up on me and kept on pushing me to get better and improve.

 I still walk by the pale yellow house on the corner lot. Now it's painted white and the family that lives there has replaced the boxwoods with ivy. After we sold the house, I realized that I loved the flaws of the chipped black shutters and the creaky hardwood floors. But even then, when recognizing my love for the flaws, I can also recognize that my love for the house stems from happy memories I had made in it with my family. Overall, those memories with my family mean more to me than the house. So now, I feel free to let go of the pale yellow house with chipped black shutters because I know now that my happy memories will stay with me always, despite the fact that the pale yellow house on the corner lot didn't.