It's Christmas Eve, and my grandma has been gone four days shy of seven months. Grandpa brought her ashes to my house tonight, so she can be here to celebrate with us. When he leaves, he tells me she can stay the night here, and I can bring her to the big family Christmas celebration tomorrow. I'm so touched, I can barely choke out that I'll take care of her. She spent her whole life taking care of me and everyone else in this family. And as frequently as she started sentences with, "When I'm gone...", you would think that I actually would've realized that someday, she really wouldn't be there, still taking care of everyone. But despite that, here she sits, on my desk, watching over me--just like I know she always, always will.
When I was two years old, we moved out of my grandparents' house--to a trailer in their yard, 30 yards away from their front door. When I was six, we moved--my mom, dad, and then two-year-old brother, three houses down from my grandparents. Three houses down, and you would've thought they were trying to move me to another continent. I hated it. I referred to it at Jerry and Peggy's house (the former owners) for the first several months, until I got in trouble. I didn't want to leave my home. I didn't want to leave my grandma and grandpa.
I won't be able to tell everything tonight, because I'm not ready for that yet--but I can start.
When I was fourteen years old, we were tasked with writing an essay for English class, about a place that was special to us. There wasn't a doubt in my mind of where that was for me. This is what I wrote:
My grandparents have a large house full of dusty old cardboard boxes--many of them forgotten in the attic or out of sight and out of mind in the basement. The rest of the house is full of parrots: Indian Ringnecks, macaws, African Greys, and other exotic birds. My grandma is always baking cookies and cakes. My grandpa always has a funny joke or story to tell. The house is pulsating with life and full of love.
The house has meant so much to me in so many ways throughout my whole life. There I learned to ride a bicycle, to cross-stitch, to bake. There I gather with my family to celebrate holidays. There I fostered my love of reading. My grandparents constantly bought me books. I learned of nature in my grandma's flower gardens. Much of who I am has come from my experiences in that house.
Responsibility was just one of the virtues my grandparents instilled in me. I learned to feed and water the birds, and to keep their cages clean. All living things need love to prosper, and in that house, they do. I grew knowledgeable about exotic birds and was introduced to my favorite bird, the Scarlet macaw, in that house. I can feed and handle small baby birds because of the patience my grandparents taught me.
One of my absolute favorite things about the house, however, is the history it contains. Those old cardboard boxes are full of photo albums, report cards, diaries, and other interesting items. My grandfather also collects antiques, so it's like stepping into the past whenever I look through the boxes. I've learned of my family's past, my heritage, my ancestors, and my roots from the contents of those boxes. I've played with toys that belonged to my mother and her eight brothers and sisters. I've read old books, and played dress up with old clothes.
The house is not special because of its location or architectural structure. It's special because it's a home away from home. It always smells like something sweet and warm. It can make me happy no matter what kind of miserable day I've had. It's a safe haven...like no other place I've ever been. It holds two of the most important people in my life--my grandparents.
All of my friends love my grandparents' house, too. Those who don't have grandparents refer to mine as theirs, also. Anyone who enters the house instantly feels relaxed, comfortable, and at home. My grandparents and the house itself have that effect on people. This is a place to grow and learn--to leave the outside world behind. My fears and anxiety melt away when I'm in that house, surrounded by love, peace, and happiness. The house is like therapy within itself--a utopia.
Who I am and what I am are composed of many different things, but that house is a part of me. All the things I've learned, all the books I've read, all the photographs I've looked at, and the stories I've heard make me a better, more caring person. The significance that old house has had has been to make me the best that I can be--pushing me out into the world, while always remaining constant and true for me to come back to.
**Grandpa encouraged me to enter my essay in a Grandparents' Day contest that the local newspaper was having. I won. This is me, age 14, reading my essay to my grandparents at the award luncheon.**
