Today we sold my grandmother’s house. She hasn’t lived in it for years, but it was still her house with her things in it, and that was somehow comforting. She bought it after my grandfather died, and shortly before I was born. When I was little I stayed with her during the week while my parents were at work and spent the night sometimes on Friday nights. I learned to tie my shoes in that house on a green chair in front of her bedroom window. We would swing in her yellow swing and count stars in the summertime. I climbed every tree in her yard, some so high I could see four streets over. We grew tomatoes beside the house and marigolds in her flowerbed. I learned to ride a bike down her street with the neighborhood kids holding on to my seat. I would rollerskate in her driveway, and sometimes in the house. She taught me to make chicken and dumplings in her kitchen, which I really never grasped but did have fun trying. We played with barbies on her floor, and hid Easter eggs inside when it rained. When I got older I would lay out on her roof and call my friends from her phone. When I got a job close by, I’d go over there every day and eat lunch. When I had my first baby, I brought him over there to visit. When Grandma got to the point she couldn’t live alone, I helped pack up her most loved things and moved her out of the house I had grown to love. Today, a young couple with two kids about the same ages as mine bought her house. I visited it one last time today and cried. I will miss my grandmother’s house, not as much as I miss my grandma living in it, but I’ll miss it just the same. The good part is that once again there will be barbies on the floor, kids in the trees and new people to fill it with happiness, just like she did. I’m sure I’ll realize that eventually, right?
