The house I grew up in was perched gently on the slope of a grassy hill. It faced open landscapes which in my mother’s eye, held many dangers. From the top of the hill, the fields below looked like patchwork jigsaws. She always seemed to be in her own world when she stood on top of that hill. It was quiet, but it was eerie at the same time. The silence made even spookier by the silent breeze of the wind. Our little house squeezed us all in though. My two brothers, my little sister, mum, dad and me. The winter months were particularly chilly, as we only had a wood fire. Wood was not easily accessible in the winter as the hill would become very slippery, and thick with snow. But we were happy. Our little house sheltered us from the outside, wrapping us in its warmth. The family gradually grew. More bricks were added, a fresh lick of paint here and there. Old pieces of carpet retrieved to cover the growing floors. Not to mention the creaky floorboards. But at least I had somewhere I could call home.
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