I remember

The pave yard, masked with multicolor leaves, sputtered all the way to the small wooden building; it embellished a large plantation yard and bestowed with undersized corns from the parch earth. Nature, as it seemed, heaved the abandoned house in a mal painted white color, with large round poles supporting the wooden, breach ceiling. From the far end of this irked place, I stood, long in the queue of the alley, on the pavement yard. Besides me, I should mention, stood Cathie, seven years old daughter of mine. With sparked in her eyes, gleams of curiosity, she traveled her eyes back and forth, from the house to her father’s eyes. As innocent as she is, her thoughts never seem to mesh toward the level of cruelty in our world; she seems to see la vie en rose, and everything around her is quite harmless.
In the sight of fogs, weaving around us, she reached for my hands, and squeezed them carelessly.
I looked at her, and she smiled “Let’s go in there.”
I shook my head, and answered “No,”
“Why not? This is our home…isn’t it?”
“Used to be,”
Plissé, in her forehead arise, and the interaction narrowed her brownish eyes.
“What’d you mean?”
“This,” I told her “is where I’ve found you dead,”
“What’d you mean?” her voice was changing, getting darker, and sadder. “What’d you mean?” that’s all she was repeating, as she cried along the words, her throat clothed with tears. “Daddy…” and little by little, her image disappeared.
Yes, I remember this house, and whenever I visit, she’s there with me.