October 8, 2013
For as long as I can remember, I have gone to my Grandmothers house every Wednesday after school. Her house, which seemed to grow smaller as I grew older, was nestled in the middle of nowhere. Her neighbor was a torn down watermill no longer in service. Ever since I had been little I wanted to be able to live in her house. I didn’t want to ever leave. Every year I would beg her to be able to stay forever. She would always say, “This will always be your home as long as I’m here.”
As soon as we pulled up the long, narrow dirt road leading to her small yellow house a feeling of joy and peace overcame me. I had always felt beyond safe whenever I was in her home; it gave me a sense of security. But I really think that just being around my grandmother gave me that sense. She would always say with her soft frail voice “let it be”. She was a beautiful short little lady. Her hair white as snow, wrinkles adorned her mahogany colored complexion each wrinkle telling a story. A story of happiness, sadness and joy. Despite her stature when she entered a room you would think she was the tallest woman in the room. She stood with so much poise and confidence I envied her. She was a stubborn woman.
The old porch swing covered in dew was located in the front yard of the house. That had been there since my Grandma had moved to her home. It was still there hanging from the huge apple tree; the tree was glistening with red delicious apples begging to be picked. The front yard also had huge towering willow trees that looked sad yet beautiful at the same time. They were my favorite because they were my go to hiding spot during hide and go seek.
As I would enter the front door of the house, the aroma of grandmas house would surround me. That smell was like a kaleidoscope of childhood memories. The memories were everywhere I looked. The small rocking chair by the window is where my grandma would rock me...