They are the only ones who really know me. I am the only one who really knows them. Eight empty houses with a front porch and big backyards. Eight that were built to hold life, but don’t hold mine  anymore. Eight lifeless structures that were build to be pretty. Everytime we move I wish I could stay, my parents don't notice, they just keep packing and find new empty houses to call home.

They’re full of secrets, they embody every event, every laugh, every “Honey I’m home.” They thrive on life, and kept me safe. They are made of bricks, smoke escaped from their chimneys, well not anymore, not since I left. This is how they stay.

When I leave, they grow old, cobwebs appearing, they become cold. Stay, stay, stay, they echoe as I’m in the doorstep and whisper goodbye. This is how it ends.

When I am feeling empty, when I am feeling homesick, I think back to the empty houses. When all I have are now pictures to remind myself what they meant to me. Eight that will turn into nine. Nine that will turn into ten. Eight houses that have become a home to another family. Eight doorsteps I never wanted to leave, the only places I wanted to stay.