The Wonderhouse

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It’s a landmark in my hometown: a giant stone mansion sitting back from a quiet road on a huge lawn, protected by an empty moat. The only full time residents are ghosts.

It’s my dream house.

Although I’ve never been inside, my childhood was spent on the front lawn. We would bike down to the house and spend summer days making up stories and acting them out. Even in the years since Pretend was a socially acceptable way to spend after-school hours, I found excuses to go to the house. In high school I created a cross country running route with the sole purpose of running past it and spending the next few miles imagining new stories. Only instead of acting them out, I started to write them down. The house was my first inspiration.

My beloved monolith was just bought back by another bank after it defeated the latest trespassers. I still think about buying that house one day. But I know that even if I never can, at least my childhood will always be on that land. My bike will always be propped against the tallest palm tree, I’ll always be watching frogs in the moat, and I’ll always be standing at the door, too afraid to knock.

Pookie is a poet and proud Ole Miss alum who is currently pursuing a Master of Fine Arts degree.

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