A House of Memories

Posted On June 5, 2022

I was only three years old that summer.

My grandparents’ house was an exciting place. Around every corner there was something interesting to be found. From the flower beds in the back, the pumpkins and watermelon and asparagus in the gardens, to the acres of fields that seemed to go on forever and ever.

What words are there to describe Grandma’s house? It feels like home… not because you live there, but because that’s where family is.

Every memory I have of their house, the thing that stands out the most is family.

I was short, my small legs dangling off the swing, pumping hard, trying to propel myself into the air. My feet in their little pink crocs, reached for the big maple tree. My arms were warmed by the late June sunlight. I could hear cars rolling by on the far-off highway. The highway was so far away, I thought, that it hardly existed.

Mostly what existed was the fields of corn—which were so big I thought they must cover most of Indiana.

My grandpa and dad sat on the bench by the house, laughing about something while hamburgers simmered on the grill. Their voices mingled with the sound of cicadas humming and birds at the feeders.

I always loved to hear my dad and grandpa talking, though I didn’t understand their words. For some reason the sound of their mingled voices always felt like… home. And memories. And some other feeling I couldn’t explain. Like time stood still at my grandparents’ house.

The playset was a huge, towering structure with two sets of stairs to get to the top, where my brother would slide down the pole. I was too little to use the pole without help, but I didn’t mind. The swings were my favorite. The thick cloth seats that slouched until you sat in them, the chains that were so long I could hardly see the top. The weightless feeling that filled me when I soared, shrieking with terror and excitement at being so high.

Sunshine danced off the bright green maple leaves and onto my short, silky hair.

I laughed as my grandma pushed me, high into the sky, so high I was sure I’d touch a cloud.

~ ~ ~

Now here I am, years later, much too big to be playing on the swing set. But still I sit on the swing, the same one I always sat on, my feet on the ground and my purple Converse shoes wet from squishing through the damp maple leaves.

That tree isn’t as big as I remember it being. I could reach up and touch a branch if I wanted. But it’s still the same tree.

Isn’t it funny how things at your grandparents’ house always seem to be exactly the same—yet slightly different, as you grow older?

The playhouse has been renovated—now there’s a ladder instead of the old stairs that I remember climbing.

I sway side to side, listening. My grandpa and dad are sitting on the bench, talking. This time, though, I can understand what they’re talking about. It’s an odd feeling.

I don’t remember growing up. But somehow it happened.

I’m caught with an odd sense of déjà vu. Maybe that isn’t the right word. But suddenly I’m aware of the time passing, the days slipping by. My grandparents’ hair is silver now. When did that happen?

Yes, it’s still the same house. Same backyard, same swing.

I think it’s the people who have changed. We’ve all grown up in our own ways.

It’s a bittersweet thought—I won’t ever be the little girl on the swing again. Soon, I think, I’ll be an adult. The thought both frightens and excites me.

I swallow, sitting in the yard that reeks with memories the way the air reeks of falltime. I close my eyes, listening to the sounds of family and love and home.

My littlest sister runs up to me, her red curls shining in the autumn sun. She’ll be three in a couple of months.

“You too big for that swing,” she informs me, bright blue eyes meeting my dark ones. “My want to play.”

I help her up onto the swing and give her a push.

She laughs, her little feet reaching for the clouds.

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This one’s for you, Grandma and Grandpa. ♥