I was not looking forward to going back. I was thinking the extreme cold might be an excuse, but I went anyway. I went back to the house where I lived for many years. The house where I debated color choices and Pinterested dramatic tile-back-splash-over-the-stove-options! I went back to the house where I stayed up way after bedtime to hang a chandelier high up in a hallway! I went back to the house where Christmas Eve, New Year's Day, and Evenings on the Magnificent Porch were spent sharing ideas, making memories, and enjoying family. I went back to the house where there were memorable conversations in swivel-around "bar stools" i while I was cooking and washing dishes.
Yes, on the coldest of days, I went back and I was flooded with the warmest of memories. I thought of the no-power-sleep-over-with my elderly mom, aunt and caregivers where beds were set up on the first floor and movies were enjoyed by all. I remembered the happy announcements and the deep discussions about next steps in life. I remembered the cousins eagerly watching an octopus carving on New Year's Day. I remembered the prayers of thanksgiving around the table.
I reflected on warm memories on my cold ride home I thought about people, conversations, messes, and love that once filled the house. I thought about the family we nurtured and celebrated within those walls. My mind drifted to an old cross-stitched wall hanging: A house is made of brick and stone. A home is made of love alone. Yes, I thought to myself as I drove through the darkness, a home is a never-perfect location where family gathers, love grows, happiness festers, and forgiveness prevails. I hope some lucky family can make it a home once again.
Yes, on the coldest of days, I went back and I was flooded with the warmest of memories. I thought of the no-power-sleep-over-with my elderly mom, aunt and caregivers where beds were set up on the first floor and movies were enjoyed by all. I remembered the happy announcements and the deep discussions about next steps in life. I remembered the cousins eagerly watching an octopus carving on New Year's Day. I remembered the prayers of thanksgiving around the table.
I reflected on warm memories on my cold ride home I thought about people, conversations, messes, and love that once filled the house. I thought about the family we nurtured and celebrated within those walls. My mind drifted to an old cross-stitched wall hanging: A house is made of brick and stone. A home is made of love alone. Yes, I thought to myself as I drove through the darkness, a home is a never-perfect location where family gathers, love grows, happiness festers, and forgiveness prevails. I hope some lucky family can make it a home once again.
5 comments:
Beautiful meditation on what's a home made of? And I love this line from your post: "Yes, on the coldest of days, I went back and I was flooded with the warmest of memories."
Your memory creates the perfect idea of home. It’s lovely and warm.
I love the tension you employ here: happiness festers. It suggests much rests beneath the surface of the return home.
This post is filled with such love and warmth. I have many fond memories of my former home.
This would be a great prompt to keep in mind for March...I went back to...
That would be the nicest thing, for someone to take the house for theirs and have those happy times, again, Anita. I still remember parts of all the houses I lived in, my husband and I lived in, and grandparents' homes too. All special, "warming" memories. I'm glad you had this time. I imagine that you would love the picture book, 'This House Once" by Deborah Freedman.
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