There’s always one house from your childhood that sticks in your mind so vividly. The smells. The sounds. Every little knick knack hidden away in their home. I remember every picture that was hung on the eggshell colored walls. I remember the bushes in the backyard the produced the sweetest berries. On the patio is my handprint forever embedded in the cement. The tiny handprint, a symbol of my existence. Next it is my grandmother, grandfathers, my aunt and my uncles. I was their child for a while. Their pretend child.
I remember the garage with jars lined up on the wall filled with all of the necessities that are needed in a garage. The smell of motor oil and gas lingering in the air. Even though there has never been a car in it. I remember the neighbors and the little girl I used to play with. I can close my eyes and see in my mind my grandma sitting in her chair. I remember where every cup goes, where the bread is stored. I even remember where she kept her photo albums. I know where the cat sleeps and I know what every single brick-a-brack on my grandpa shelves mean, how they got there and who gave it to him.
My grandparents house is the only house I’ll ever know by heart. It was the only place I felt safe in. The only house I called a home. It’s funny and sad at the same time. My grandma passed on 7 years ago and it still is the same in every way. The same smells, trinkets, the sugar shaker is in the same place it always has been. It is my home.
Grandpa has gone on with his life. A vigorous 80 year old man, with love in his heart and memories on his mind. He has moved on and is living his life. He’s fallen in love again.
It’s good to know that life after death is not lonely. That you can still be happy. But, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it has to change either. It’s good to know when I go to see him on holidays that when I’m home, I can go to the sugar shaker where it’s always been and pour it into my coffee. It feels safe to know that the pillow that my kids lay their head on are the same pillows I layed mine on as a child. It’s good to know that I can share my childhood with them, when I grab the photo album out of the closet. It feels good to know when I walk in my grandmas room that her presence is in every pore. I can sit on her bed and feel her. I can show my kids the life that I have lived before them. Even though Bree has met her once and even though Joey has never – they know who she was and what she meant to me. That this is home. My home. My safe place.
I remember Gram's house like that. I didn't spend lots of time there but I was there for at least some time every six months for my entire impressionable youth. We lived out of state and moved every year or two so Gram's house was the only place that stayed the same - the only one that I really got to know over a period of time.
Posted by: Jim at September 4, 2004 11:14 AM