What I remember most about the house on Roosevelt Street was the front door. It wasn’t even a particularly memorable front door in a visual sense – it had been painted on and painted over more times than I can remember. What I remember most was the sound it made when you opened it. A strange squeak, like a child laughing.

When I was twelve, the front door was a rich shade of brick red, complete with brass knob and door knocker. There was a standard welcome mat too, but sand from the beach always made it into the front hall.

The door was never locked, not that I can remember. I think my father kept the only key, but people always seemed to be coming and going.

In my memory, it’s always summer and there’s always clothes hanging to dry.

The door is green now, a color that seems to clash with the wooden shingles and my childhood memories. The wooden front porch is gone, replaced with a set of brick steps.

But as I sit in my car across the street, I can still hear the sound of a child laughing.