I was seven or eight when my dad lived in this small house in a town no one has heard of. It looked miniature, it was almost toy like. It was surrounded by a fence that was covered in flowers. No weeds at all, just flowers. Huge pink and yellow and purple ones everywhere. And when you went through the gate there was one of those fairy-word like flower alters you went under into a covered patio and just gardens on both sides of the sidewalk leading to the hidden door to the house. The kitchen was small and congested and always full of soup. There was a little table for two in it. An old table that gave me splinters. There was an aquarium that went through the entire house all along the wall; it just lined it. I got to feed the fish sometimes, when my brother would let me. There were gardens everywhere in the back hard. We spent every moment we could in the gardens. It felt like we were in an entire different world. We ran and ran for hours all around different peddles, under covered porches and into tunnels only we could fit in. There was a white swing that could wear four. It was painted rough but it moved smooth and let out a faint song every time we shifted our weight testing how high we could get it. We wanted to touch every cloud and feel it as real as the ground below us. We never felt a cloud, but I will always remember the feeling of wanting something impossible, but still trying so hard to reach it anyways