Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • I’d never lived in a place with stairs before.
    But, I guess if we’re talking change, I’d never lived in an apartment before, period.
    Never had a pool, never had a car, never learned to drive. I’d never packed my most valuable possessions in cardboard boxes.
    I’d never had to share my home building with so many people before.
    Never lived with kids, or college students, or couples that laugh so loud that you can hear them through the floorboards.
    I’d never lived outside my house.
    Never lived without all my books, my giant window, or the abandoned playhouse my dad had built for me when I was seven. Never without the backyard of gardens, filled with my mom’s flowers, or the fruit and vegetable garden I gave up on when I was nine. Never without the blue and brown walls layered over atrociously bright yellow, that we painted over when I was thirteen. Never without history.
    I’d never lived in a place with stairs before.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.