A home is just four walls that are built on years and years of memories. Some families live in a home for a year, some are lucky enough to live in the same home for a little over 50 years. My grandparents were one of the lucky ones. The past 21 years I have had a place to go when time stood still. A place where nothing bad could ever happen, where markings on the wall leading into the kitchen indicated how tall I was and what age as I was getting older. A house made of love and care from my grandparents. Nothing seemed to change, besides the people in the pictures hanging on the walls were getting older.
For 20 years that I was lucky enough to have my grandparents on this earth I had a piece of my childhood I can't seem to let go of now. The place where time stood still is suddenly changing, leaving with them, but the memories still remaining. Going home for Thanksgiving I had an opportunity to go back and wander around the house, exploring and reliving the memories I want to hang onto for the rest of my life. Memories like Christmas Eve over there each year.
The stockings mushed together on the mantel by oldest to youngest, the sound of clattering and people chatting, the mountains of presents placed around us, and "A Christmas Story" continually playing in the background as we wait to rip up all the wrapping paper taunting us while Grandma opens her presents first trying to not ruin the pretty wrapping. My mother eventually would go over to my grandma and "accidentally" rip one of the wrapping sending all twelve grandchildren in a fit of excitement as wrapping paper started flying everywhere around the family room. My oldest cousin made the mistake one year of telling my mom that just getting money seemed to be a bit boring.She managed to give my cousin money in the oddest ways and year after year it was a different thing. From baking coins into a cake, making jello shots with coins on the bottom, putting money in soaps and oils, and jamming money into ornaments so the only way to access the money was to break the ornaments just to name a few. Thus started the annual "Aunt Ann's crazy Christmas gift." Christmas Eve at my Grandparents was always my favorite. It might of been all the decorations, or the company, but Christmas over there always seemed magical. Time paused just a little bit longer as most of us squished were together on the kids table in the family room laughing and eating as the adults were in the dining room enjoying their dinner as well.
From Christmas to the amount of time spent sitting at the kitchen table talking my grandpa's ear off while he tries to listen to my endless rants as I got older. I still see Grandma in the kitchen, watching her cook as cooking shows play in the background. Walking through I can see them all around me, like they never left. The entire house was filled with warmth
and never quiet. Growing up in a big family, quiet was a rare term.
Somebody is either screaming, talking, running around, or stealing food
that is not theirs. Spoons usually go flying, along with playing cards
and people, as we finish the night. The house made me feel safe, sound,
and I took for granted all those times.
Now, I am sitting alone in empty family room freezing. All the Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, summers, Thanksgivings, and any other memory that made me happiest and most loved growing up became just that, a memory. The house that built me became empty. All the furniture long gone and probably spread across the country, all the pictures taken down and put into boxes, and all the memories locked away in our heads. The house that built me turned to just four walls before my eyes.
