the last place I call home

There are places on this Earth that retain a spirit of those who have been there. The walls hold the whispers of conversations long ago held, the windows witnesses to countless memories. The Dolan house is one of those places. It's the first house you see as you roll into Bridgeport, CA. A tiny town on US 395 that is so small you can look down and miss it. It's a town many know, a starting place for outdoor adventures, a locale for a small town Fourth of July celebrations. For me, it is a place before memory, and it holds in it so many dear ones who are no longer with us. Alice's house is full of my childhood, my loved ones, and now my own children carry those too. When I think of home, I don't think of the house I grew up in, I think of the little white house, and the porch rocker. I think of the haunted rooms, and the park out back. Fireworks and too much whiskey. I think of the laughter and ones I miss, it's a space that holds so much. It's the last place I'll call home.