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I have a concrete definition of a dream house. In my hometown, there used to be a house where an old couple who acted as a go-between for my parents’ marriage lived with their son, the son’s wife and their grand children. They had three grand children and the youngest was a teenage girl named Emi. I called their house ‘Emi’s house’, which was, and still is, the embodiment of my dream house. Since I was raised by my strict grandparents and was always nervous around them at home, I often sneaked out my house and spent time at Emi’s house when I was little. People in Emi’s family were all grown-ups to me and I usually played alone in their house. Although the house was only one block away from mine, it was a whole different world to the one I lived in. It had a novel exterior to begin with. It was a three-story house made of reinforced concrete, while most houses in the neighborhood were one-story wooden houses at that time. Its back yard was the lawn, which was also rare. They kept two dogs, a collie and a Maltese terrier. All in all, it was westernized and I felt as if I was in a movie. Inside, there was a big hallway with a wide staircase. A huge silver refrigerator, which was the kind seen only in a restaurant, sat in the kitchen. In a spacious bathroom, there was a long low bathtub decorated with beautiful tiles, which end curled back to be used as a pillow. Upstairs were the family member’s private rooms, which my family didn’t have in my home. Above them was a vast rooftop garden which top cover opened and closed automatically by a switch. Everything I saw in Emi’s house fascinated me so much that it was fairyland to me. Whenever I see a beautiful house, I can’t stop comparing it to Emi’s house even now. Sadly, the house was torn down years ago and my dream house was gone. I miss Emi’s house much more than my own house where I grew up…
