[ WP ] Write a story about home . Wherever it is in the world , can be fiction or non-fiction .

Every time I hear the word'warmth', I see my little red-bricked home sitting a little to the side of winding country road. It's the first house on a street that goes nowhere. 
 
 In the evening, the sun would set in my window. I never knew the start of the day, but I always watched the spectacular colors of its death. I'd catch my breath, watch it dip below lilacs and oaks. The old peat oven that kept us warm as much as it kept the smell of a crackling fire in the walls. 
 
 Cemented in the corners are every fight borne beyond the control of my parents. Every word thrown at school that I'd throw back at the mirror. The surrender of my dad in every difficult conversation. 
 
 There were few photographs, but a cache of laughter and tears. A swirl of moments that feel separated from reality with their wealth of emotion. 
 
 The concussion that gave me gaps in my fading memory happened here, too. I struggle not to carelessly cast out what little I know. It was an accident. An accident that takes so much. That keeps being so much. 
 
 I watched the sun cast her last breaths on my dollhouses, my vanity table, my bedspread, my noose, my packed boxes. It was never truly my house again after I left for college. It's beautiful, more now than before, but it will never again be home. 
 
 Home exists only in my dying memory and the word'warmth'.
