"How I Remember It" by Charlee Olsen
Our little white house with the big red door wasn’t perfect. The back deck was unfinished, and if you dared to trek barefoot across the shaky boards, you’d end up with Dad having to pull out your splinter with his cold, metallic tweezers. The yard was oddly shaped. There was ample space in the front, enough to plant a small red and green tree that would one day(soon) be run over and demolished by a neighbor boy in an innocent game of flag football. Later, we planted another tree, a purple one this time. It grew and grew, and today, when I drive through Salt Wind to get to a friend's house, I always take the long way to see how tall our tree has gotten. Now, when I drive by and stop creepily in the middle of the street, I can't help but feel sad that the door is no longer bright red. And even though the house isn’t mine anymore, we planted the trees out front, and the mailbox still reads 2268, a number I’ve had memorized since first grade. So even though the small white house with the red door wasn’t perfect, I remember it perfectly.