When we were small children we called the blue house just that, the blue house, and we ran past it without thought.
As we learned to ride bicycles, we plainly heard a man and a woman arguing in the house. We began calling it the “shouting house” and we picked up the pace whenever we rode by.
One day, while learning to drive, I drove past the shouting house and saw police cars and swirling lights.
The shouting woman went to jail. The house fell into disrepair. Ragweed and mustard grew up alongside the outside walls. The weeds scratched at the walls when the wind blew. We renamed the place the “weed house.” I stopped looking when I drove by.
The other day, I drove past the house.
The house is blue.