Brown walls, a red trim, a red door. A chimney being used as a ladder by a bush inching its way to roof. Three steps up to the door, and the inside. Inside is what I know best. Inside is where I grew up, where I played, where I made new worlds. I lost my first tooth on that square patterned rug we used to keep in the living room but retired to my bedroom because I wouldn’t let them throw it away. In the corner is where that big orange and red chair used to sit alone all day until I came home from school and collapsed in it. It too now sits in the corner of my bedroom, holding up piles of various discarded clothes with pride. These things carry my memories on them like hard to wash out stains. My room has changed many times over the years. Been repainted, rearranged, redecorated. And each time I make a change I make room for some object on its way out the red door that has a stain and a smell I remember.