My house took four long, hard months to build.
          My daddy and my big brother Robert nailed pieces of wood together, hiking the five miles to town to buy more when they ran out of materials. Every day when I went to see it it was bigger and bigger, until finally it was as big as it would be. When they finished I helped my mom paint and furnish the inside.
          Finally, it was completely done, and that made me very, very happy. I had watched that house grow for four months, and now it was finished. My family moved in, and every time I looked at that house I couldn't help but feel that it was mine.
          Every night my mom made dinner in the little kitchen, and every night my family came together to eat it. That kitchen in that house, my house, was a place of togetherness for my family and I.
Every night I cuddled up in my thick quilt on the bed in my small, cozy room. I could see my window from there, and every night I fell asleep looking at the stars. That room in that house, my house, was a place of wonder.
          One day I came home from a long, hard day of school with only hours of homework on my mind. As I came closer to the house, I saw smoke. Thick, gray clouds of smoke.
          I dropped my books and started running. As I approached my house, I saw huge red and orange flames. I didn't know what to do. My brother was still at school, my dad was working and my mom was shopping in town, so nobody was home. Nobody was there to help me. Nobody was there to save my house.
          I ran the well dry pouring water on it but it was no use. I sat down, tears running down my face as I watched my house shrink closer and closer to the ground. Finally, all that was left was a pile of black ashes.
          Devastated, I ran. I ran far, far away. I ran past the river, past the trees, deep into the woods. Finally, I collapsed at a rock and, exhausted both mentally and physically, fell asleep on it.
          When I awoke, my mom was shaking me. It was dark out. I got up, at first confused. But then I remembered.
          "The house..." I croaked, but my mom shushed me and assured me that we would find another place to live.
          And we did. But it just wasn't the same.
          Years later, lost in my thoughts, I made a wrong turn upon coming home from work. I knew I should have turned around, but something told me to keep going.
          So I drove. And drove. And drove. Finally, I stopped, seeing a row of identically built houses. One, though, stuck out to me.
          On the outside, it looked exactly the same as the others. However, I knew that it stood in the exact place that the house my father and brother spent four months building once did.
          The house of my childhood. My house.