The House on Honey Hill

Killian Redden—Honorable Mention, Glimmerglass Festival Youth Writing Competition
Grade 8, Cherry Valley-Springfield Central School

The house on Honey Hill. My house. Third from the bottom. Yellow, with green shutters, who’s paint begins to peel in autumn.

Old house. My house. Square house. Middle of who-knows-where house. Mountain house. Memory house.

Go down the road. By my house. Four roads meet. Each one, more than dangerous to travel with only your own two feet. Each lead on.

A river runs through the woods surrounding my house. My house. Runs from the top. At the bottom, sits a pond, with running water that never seems to stop. The pond is also a home. Home to beavers, ducks and the occasional school of fish.

My house has a large yard. My house. Spans for acres around. During the night, all the creatures make a symphony of beautiful sound. The forest is another home. Home to deer, wolves and birds of all kinds.

In the winter, my house stands strong. My house. When the snow comes, my house keeps us safe. The snow that falls back and forth, in a strafe. The pond and river, frozen solid. The forest, covered in a blanket of preservation, until the spring.

In the spring, my house stands strong. My house. The snow starts melting, to make way for new life. The warm sun, cutting through the cold winter, like a gleaming knife.

In the summer, my house is emptier. My house. School is out, and the weather couldn’t be better. Every day, it makes me want to be a go-getter. In the summer, the evenings are the best part. So beautiful.

In the fall, my house begins to chill. My house. In the fall, the trees are stripped of their leaves. Squirrels begin to stash food for winter, like tiny little thieves. The forest turns warm shades of orange, red and yellow.

Year after year, my house has stood. My house. It has stood for longer than I may ever fathom. When I was younger, the cracks in the floorboards seemed like little chasms. I am big now.

We take care of my house. My house. Like a grandparent. The repairs we make become less and less apparent. A cracked door, a broken board, peeled paint or a frozen pipe. We repair my house.

Many families lived in my house, before me. My house. A house of stories; experience. A house of learning and percipience. Stories of love and hate. Friends and enemies. Harm, and protection.

My house.