I'm walking up a pathway, and when I look in front of me, the bright yellow paint of the wall contrasts greatly with the dark blacks of the sky and the pavement. The smell that accompanies the rain and the worms in winter is fresh around me, like wet dirt or wet dog, but with a suburban twist that makes it smell slightly chemical.

I take my key and unlock the door, noting for the hundreth time a faded cardboard sign at the top that says "Smile." It, too, contrasts greatly with the yellows. In fact, with the exception of the bright yellow happy faces one sees on the Walmart commercials, nothing can compare to this yellow intensity. Its inhabitants must have anticipated this wet season and the depression that can sometimes accompany it.

No one is inside. No matter. The house has an entirely separate identity, and needs no human to distinguish it. Wet clothing and musty blankets waft through the rooms on the heels of the smell of the heater I have turned on.

My shoes are in the corner. They're surrounded by two couches with a seaweed colored, towel-like material that have been sitting there, stoically, for over twenty years. When young faces press too close to the cushions, small noses become filled with dust, and soon you will hear coughing.

One couch sits directly in front of the heating vent. I push it aside and grab a blanket. I lay my head down on the old-newspaper yellow carpet, and curl up by the heater. I take a nap. It will only be a few hours until my grandparents come home. They'll see my bag, and know that I'm there. They'll smell my wet socks, and know that I'm there. They'll feel that I love them, and know that I'm there. Finally they'll pull back the couch, and there I will be, looking up at them like they are a gift, inside the yellow house where everyone smiles.