My Aunt and the Yellow House
It was summer vacation, and I had just been sent to New York in the country for a month with my grandmother to get me out of the house. We had a lot of relatives out there, and my aunt had come all the way out from Switzerland with her husband and two sons, so it was kinda like a big family reunion. The day my aunt came and we picked her up from the airport. I went to sleep over at the place she was staying. It was late after my aunt and I finished talking, and I had just told her that I enjoyed running. "Oh" she said. "Thats great! You know, tomorrow I'm going running in the morning. Do you want to come?" I said yes. The next morning, we went outside and started to jog. After about a mile in though, I was exhausted, and we still had four miles to go and back! "How do you do it?" I panted to my aunt (she wasn't even tired!). "Well," she said "I go to my happy place. It's an imaginary yellow house. It's big. It's old. Probably was made around the 1700's. It is made of wood, and has a large brick chimney coming out of the right side. There is a balcony on it out front painted white. Inside the house, there is a staircase in front of the door..." and she went on about every little detail about it. Even the little picture of a rose in the bathroom, upstairs on the right. When she's done, we jog in silence. "She's probably in her happy place now," I can remember thinking. "I don't have any idea who would want one though!"
Suddenly, in the middle of my thought bubble, my aunt stopped. I almost ran right into her! Out of nowhere, she started bawling and crying all over the place. I was trying to calm her down, and figure out what had happened when suddenly I saw it. The Yellow house. It was old and large and made of wood, and looked like it had been made around the 1700s. It had a large chimney coming out of the right side, and had a front porch painted white. Through the large window, you could see a staircase in front of the door. After my aunt had calmed down, she told me that she was going to ask the owner if she could see the house. No matter how much I begged her I couldn't convince her not to. Amazingly, the owner was there and allowed us inside without saying a word. It was exactly as she had said. The little painting of the rose in the bathroom on the right at the top of the stairs was there. It was really creepy. On the way home we ran in silence, again. The whole way back I was thinking that there was no way my aunt could have seen that house before. She had just arrived in New York the day before, when she was taken directly to the house she was staying at.
