The Casita

When I was younger, I had a home of my own. It sat very near to my parent’s house, but you could not see it from their back porch. Just beyond the woods, by a small creek and a large dinosaur shaped boulder sat my Casita, my little house. The paint was badly chipping, it’s once sparkling white finish slowly fading with age. The steps that lead to my tiny porch were gradually rotting away, and though hidden as it was, the forest could not spare it the damages of every passing winter. Years I spent in that house, from the age of nine to almost thirteen. I was happy there. Innocent, unafraid, and independent. I painted pictures on the walls, sang into the creek and watched the leaves make bushy piles by my door. In the winter I could hide in my Casita forever, and the snow would never get me. In the summers it would shield me from the blaring heat. I planted a small garden, and watched it die right beside my little house. It was my little treasure. Sadly, as I grew it did not. As my imagination died, so did my friendship with the Casita. With every passing year the tiny roof would sink. The cinderblock foundation began to crumble, and the little steps up to my tiny porch continued to rot away. When I had to leave my casita for the last time, all I can remember is the stale smell of decaying dreams that had been burnt and broken with time, and with age. So many happy times leave me with sour memories of the person I used to be. My paradise was left behind do decompose along with all my childish hopes. When I was younger, this little house was my home. Sat very near to what used to be my parent’s house, you cannot see what pathetic ruins it has become. Just beyond the woods, by a small creek and a large dinosaur shaped boulder, are the remains of my Casita, my little house.