You revisit the perfectly preserved house of your childhood . Not a chair has been moved or a table disturbed . But something is wrong ...

I knew where I was before I even opened my eyes. I could feel it. Prying my eyes open only confirmed what I had already guessed. I was home. The front door was unlocked, just as it always was, and, though a bit stiffer than I recalled, swung open quite readily. 
 
 A thick layer of dust, that I'm sure had my Nonna spinning in her grave, covered every surface but otherwise the house looked the same as it ever did. On my left was the living room, where my friends and I had once slept during a birthday party, swapping bad stories and worse jokes until late into the night. A smile was brought to my face as I recalled the faces of friends long forgotten. I continued through to the dining room and the long table that had played host to countless family dinners and where I had been taught more card games than I could possibly remember by various aunts and cousins. I passed the large, wooden spoons hanging on the wall that my mother always threatened to beat me with as I moved into the kitchen. Platters and serving dishes were still arrayed on the kitchen island as though I had just missed a great feast, perhaps Christmas or Easter. I strained my senses and for just a moment I could hear the happy mumbling of numerous conversations. On the other side of the kitchen I found the family room with the gas fireplace still turned on, though fireplace was extinguished and no gas came out. I looked out the back window to where the garden still sat, it was overgrown now but the paths could still be made out and I could see where I had once pulled out carrots. I used to eat them without washing or peeling them, much to the chagrin of my mother. 
 
 I retraced my dust coated steps, like footprints in the snow, back to the front door and climbed the long staircase to the second floor. On the landing sat our old computer where I had first tasted digital freedom and explore new frontiers. I glanced in at my sister's bedroom, still as pink as I remembered it. Dolls and blankets were strewn everywhere like the fluffiest war in history had taken place. I proceeded down the hall, past my parent's room with the doll whose eyes glowed in the night and followed you around the room, to my door. 
 
 I could remember all of this, I knew all of this. Every inch of this house was filled with memories. I could paint every room with my eyes closed. But how could I do all that when encased in so much dust on my bed lifelessly lay little five year old me.
