The nasally hello would stop the ringing of the phone.
I would instantly picture her, sitting in the oak dinner chair with the wicker bottom nestled into the corner of the dinning room. The warm light made warmer as it bounced off the yellow-wood of the cabinets in the kitchen. Her pink slippers resting on the green vintage linoleum as she listened to my stories.
Something I would say, would make a grin break out of the winkles on her skin, lighting up the eyes that glittered under her white hair.
White hair, not yellow. Grandma’s special purple shampoo that rested on the bathtub, made sure her locks stayed white. The bathroom with the dusty blue carpets where cherubs would watch over mischievous children who wanted to jump down the laundry shoot to the basement.
I loved visiting the Pepto-Bismol pink house on Dayton Ave. in Dayton, Wa.
It was the only place that ever really felt like home.
I loved the house I grew up in, but the blush pink carpets of my grandparents living-room was were I always found peace when the world would get to0 crazy.
A two-hour drive from Spokane, and I would be with the two souls I loved the most in the world. Within moments of arriving the craziness would leave my head and love would fill my soul. I knew everything was going to be all right.
My grandfather would greet me with a grin. Our faces would mush together as I hugged him tight, and his hearing aid would buzz in my ear.
He would enlist me in some sort of task or mischief he was up to. We would strip floors, create glass art, or make strange food concoctions, while grandma would read in her chair.
Every inch of that house is a part of me.
Which is why I am dreading Saturday.
Seven days from now I will go back one last time, to help empty out the memories.
I don’t want to go.
What I want to do is seal the house up like some sort of shrine to the people that created such a magical home out of it for over fifty years.
So that there is never a moment where I could forget the hours I spent in there.
But as an adult, I have to be mature about this.
I can’t hoard the memories in piece of glass and wood, I have to let some of them go.
I keep thinking about the objects that are “important”.
Grandpa’s brown coffee mug that only seems to fit in his weathered fingers?
Grandma’s pink slippers that shuffle down the hallways, with the wear marks in the soles.
Bowls that were used strictly for fruit salad?
Big white bar stools used to eat Grandma’s peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on?
Quilts that kept the cold out on the little twin beds we slept in?
A funny little witch in the kitchen with no britches on?
In dollars and cents those objects are worthless, and yet…
…and yet I can’t imagine a world without them.
Just like I am having a hard time realize a world without their owners.