always will be

When my Grannie died in 2009, I remember walking her fields in the cold, knowing she must have walked them thousands of times. I walked so far to the edges of them that I didn’t recognize where I was after coming across a private property sign before turning around to retrace my steps. I went into her study and looked at her desk which felt very in media res, like I’d walked into the middle of a story already well underway. Except she was dead and whatever she was working on was in truth suspended forever. A pair of her reading glasses remained and I pocketed them. While the house at the time was full of family heirlooms, I wanted something that she would have used every day. If I had been in a better mind to think more clearly about it, I would have taken her cane.

I was 16 when she died and I didn’t return for another sixteen years until my mom’s recent 80th birthday roadtrip. Both my Aunts encouraged me not to go emphasizing how the house I grew up adoring was no longer there. “Keep your memories!”. I’ve never understood that sentiment. Perhaps it’s the same part of me that wants to see as many versions of someone or a place as I can. I’ve heard stories of people not visiting folks as they die, afraid to tarnish the memory of them. I want to see it all.

Growing up, we used to take a summer photo on the stoops of the house. Kids, grandkids, family friends would all pile together and we’d all do our best to smile at the same time with our eyes open. As I walked up the same gravel driveway I used to run as a kid and made it to the still meticulous brick walkway leading up to the house, I knew I had to take one last grandkid photo. It was just me this time. No chaos of trying to get everyone to actually come over and sit down or look in the same direction.

Just like when we were kids, a back room of the house that acted as a makeshift shed of sorts had its door open. It was where some of the guns, various tools for caring for the property, extra paint, and the like were stored. I barely took a step inside when the smell of the house overtook me–it was still Grannie’s to me and easy tears quickly fell. It smelled exactly the same.

Later that day, I had to come back in search of my mom’s clip on sunglasses that she somehow lost on our visit (and would later fully lose again a few day later). I both was determined to try to find them and wasn’t ready to have that be the only time I’d walk the grounds on this visit. As I walked around solo this time, I said hi to Grannie, shared my deep appreciation for this place, and tried my best to hold it close.

Was it the same place where I learned to drive at 8/9 years old? Was it the same place where I learned to love the sunrise and sunset? Was it the same place where I watched vegetables grow in a garden for the first time? Yes. It was and always will be. I hope to return again.