At the age of ten, I moved to a new house. It was disappointing because I had to leave the friends I grew up with behind. We would play together every day, but the day I told them I had to move, we all sulked around. My mom was in a very good mood, but every time she looked at me I couldn’t help but cry because I was leaving my friends behind.
The move to the new house was pretty scary. I didn’t know anyone around, and I felt like it wasn’t safe. My neighborhood is not the best. Since I have moved, there have been multiple break-ins and thefts around my house, including mine. I still get scared, which makes me feel like my old house was a safer place.
I always thought that I would live in the place I grew up in until I was eighteen. It never happened, and I still don’t like the thought that I won’t see my mom grow old in that house. Although my memories are pleasant, they can still make me sad. My old home was the first and last spot I had seen my grandma which makes me miss her all the time. From my point of view, the new house can’t bring as many memories as the one I grew up in.
I have figured out that it’s not just a location, but more of a checkpoint through the adventure that is life. Also it's nice to feel safe, but glory usually takes risks. The experience leaves me wondering what will come next.