Memories

On a little hill down in a small valley sat a depressively modest blue-gray house. Built by two people out in Fern Prairie sits the welcoming, warming place I once was proud to go home to.

I grew up in this place, and as you enter into the basement from the garage you can smell the never-ending home-cooking my grandmother seems to plan for all-hours.

Through the harmonious smells of the kitchen, you find yourself in the living room that has been well-lived in for every holiday and birthday event. This is the gathering place for every member, where everyone can feel at home.

Travel down the hall, past the coat closet to the left, a bedroom to the right, and bathroom directly across the hall. Just slightly farther and you’ll find yourself in the “forbidden zone which is only used for the homeowners’ pleasure.

Walk through it now and see the emptiness it strikes. No more five girls shoved into a single bathroom. No more fighting for hot shower water. No more of Grandpa’s shouts from downstairs for the kids to stop running. No more rainy days spent curled up in the over-stuffed arm chair that sits in the corner of two adjoining windows. And worst of all, no more of Grandma’s delicious home-cooking.