Monday, February 24, 2014
The House That Built Me
Over the weekend I had a nice conversation with my oldest sister. After catching up on a few things, she let me know she was thinking about putting her house on the market as she explained the scenario I understand the need and want to. But at the same time my mind raced back to all the memories of the house. This house was built by my grandparents and has been in the family ever since. Some memories are awful, and have never left a scar so deep. Others make me smile and laugh, home is home no matter what has been inside those four walls. The past 5 years my sister has done all she can to make it work for a family of 6: 3 bedrooms and 1 bathroom just enough. She has remodeled a lot, however the precious markings still remain on the walls. The summer Kasey left us, he marked his height inside the front door, outside he wrote his name in cement. This are small tokens that remind us of his presence, something he wrote, and something we can picture him doing with a smirk on his face. These are the things that make it hard for me to let go. I remember the day my old bedroom walls got painted, covering all the drawings he drew next to where my bed use to lay. Slowly, I let go of the anger and appreciated my newly painted walls, because the memories were still there. I could still picture him coming in on Saturday mornings asking if I'd get up so we could watch cartoons. The thought of never walking into those doors again leaves me with a heavy heart, however I must remember those are just things. I will always have the memories.