17 years ago I was planted in a small town on the edge of South Dakota. My seed found the most fertile soil off of Sycamore and 42nd street. The small roots that first punctured my encasing gripped the dirt that made up the ground of Goldenrod Lane. There, my seed was watered and flooded with sunlight. Months later I gathered my footing and broke through the earth as an oblivious sprout. Even above ground, I was sheltered from the conflicting skies and the resentful clouds. My leaves remained intact through this period of development and I inched a little taller each day. My roots began to intertwine with the particles I was embedded in and soon I was able to stand on my own. This place and my sprout had a natural affinity. I was comfortable here, with no worries other than the angle at which the sunlight hit. I watched the commotion of the world while stationed in my 2,000 square foot patch of land. Uncertainty overtook complacency outside of my domain, but I remained unscathed. I had a strong sense of gratitude for the home turf that I soon became one with. With four stories to sprawl through as well as four spacious rooms to overrun, my residency here became a soothing remedy to all my struggles. I was swaddled in the grey painted walls and the plush carpet for all of my adolescents, I knew nothing besides my fondness of this house.

The comfort that was established in 3404 made the idea of uprooting myself from such paradise nearly unimaginable. With my roots would come 17 years of nostalgia. The closet that insulated all of my frigid feelings, the kitchen that nourished me with more than just food, the bathroom that cleansed me of yesterday’s troubles and the front door that swallowed the narrative of the last 17 years in the 57110.

A reality that wasn’t spent in the house that had pledged so many years of security and certainty was a reality that I rejected from the get-go. But the bidding war proceeded despite my pleads for just a few more months. A price tag was tied to the habitation of my solace. My four stories of mementos were dispatched with a red yard sign that read ‘for sale’ in bold letters. Each fixture of the house on Goldenrod held some type of personalized meaning that soon dissipated with a stranger’s signature and a moving truck.  

It’s been settled that I can’t stay here forever. But I will relish over the idea that no matter where my sprout is replanted, my stem will hold the impression of that house and my petals will sprinkle a love equivalent to the one that this house has poured into me.