Two weeks ago, a young family bought my grandmother’s house and moved in.
I understand that this is the way things go. Grandma passed away in 2007 and the house has been on the market since early 2008. Upkeep was becoming costly and the house was becoming a problematic issue in my family.
But it’s still hard to wrap my brain around. I know it’s just a house, but it was the house my grandma bought while my grandfather was in Europe during World War II. It’s the house my grandpa remodeled mostly on his own. It’s the house my mom grew up in and a place I loved.
It hurts my heart a bit to know that someone is painting over the spot next to the cellar door where my name and height, along with my brother’s and cousins’, are recorded. It bothers me a bit to know that the picture of Jesus no longer hangs in the hall or the photo of my grandfather in his uniform isn’t on the wall in the living room. I find myself wondering if they’ve wiped away the numbers my mom wrote in chalk on the brick next to the narrow stairs to the attic, reminders that she was once a little girl and that was her pretend address for when she played house in the attic with her friends.
I miss my grandma’s snowball bush outside and the hidden key that wasn’t really all that hidden since we all knew where it was.
I know it’s just a house, but it’s a house full of memories for me—and it’s so weird to think that someone else is living there.
I know at Christmas, we’ll go to visit my aunt and uncle who live across the street from the house and I’ll gaze across the street, for a moment forgetting or falling into old patterns, and think that her car ought to be sitting in the carport, her decorations sitting on the front porch.
But she isn’t there. She’s with the Lord she loved so long.
And this is what she wanted. And after all, it is just a house.
Another family will begin there own memories in that house; I’ll carry mine in my heart.