Emily Merz

The House of Wonders

Most of my childhood memories aren't clear. I couldn't even tell you how old I was that day, though I would guess five or six. And I can’t recall how we got there; if Mother had purchased that old Pontiac yet, or if we’d taken the bus. But from the moment we stepped onto the property, my memory is alive. I am there, fully, counting the bricks of the walkway as I place my feet squarely inside of them, Mother at my side guiding me briskly towards the emerald green front door. I shifted my gaze upwards as we neared the steps, absorbing the enormity of the structure, feeling diminished in comparison.