Granny's House

It had been many years since I had seen my childhood home, too many. We moved away when I was thirteen, and for a long time, I missed it terribly. The house itself wasn’t much. It was small, shabby, not quite built to last, but the memories and the feelings it evoked in me were everything. Innocence. Safety. Security. Love.

I often longed to return, but I never really seemed to have the time. Time. It is such an interesting thing. Infinite, yet, there never seemed to be enough.

I don’t even remember making the conscious decision to return now, but here I am walking up a dirt path sidewalk, about to turn left and around the corner at the top of the street where I grew up.

The sidewalk ends at the same spot, the paved road ends, where my street begins.

I’d walked up and down this street so many times throughout my childhood, if I chose to, I could do it with my eyes closed and never falter. The way my foot feels as the sole of my right tennis shoe steps on to the street is still so familiar, comforting. It’s bumpy, made of poured concrete filled with smooth rounded rocks. My left foot comes forward as it too finds its way on to the road, and I am instantly flooded by a barrage of memories. This street was so much a part of my life, of who I am, that I can still see it clearly whenever I close my eyes, even though I haven’t really seen it in over ten years.

I continue walking down the street.

One step. Two steps. Three steps. Four.

Fifty-three steps and I am now standing across the street from my childhood home, my Granny’s house. It is just as I remembered.

It’s a small house, painted green, third one down on the right. The day we painted it is one of the first memories I have, I think I was three. Before that day, it was a slightly darker green, more like asparagus than the minty color it is now.

The front yard—was it always so small? is surrounded by a gray chain link fence. The mailbox and attached paper box stand to the right of the gate that opens to a narrow, paved walkway. The walkway splits the flat grassy yard into two parts; with the smaller third of the yard on the right, and the rest on the left. Except for where the gate sits, the front, outer perimeter of the larger side is all flowerbeds two feet deep filled with various flora—tulips, daisies, snapdragons, and a large lilac that sits in the far corner. On the right side, rather than flower beds, the fence is lined with a strawberry patch.

The walkway leads from the gate to a small covered porch, two steps high. A fuchsia basket hangs on the left, and wind chimes in each corner, the numbers 2, 8, 0, and 5 are attached downward on the left post. On the porch sits a large faded green stone turtle and an equally faded stone gnome, he has a gray beard, blue pants, a red-orange shirt, and a green hat.

To the right of the porch is a camellia bush. I say bush, but this bush grew more like a tree. The brown trunk, smaller than a tree trunk but thicker than you would expect to see on a bush, was two feet high before it started branching out. The long branches grew in many directions, some reaching past the top of the house and others lower, creating a rounded shape. They were covered with thick, dark-green leaves, and still to this day, the most beautiful crimson-colored flowers I have ever seen. I can almost feel the rubber-like texture of the leaves as I gently rub my thumbs across the tips of my fingers. I close my eyes and inhale, though the camellias have no discernible floral scent, they still remind me of home.

Behind the bush is a small window that looks into the living room, it is opened a couple inches, just as it always was so the cats could come and go as they pleased. Though I can’t see it from here, I know that there is a small wooden rod that sits in the lower tray of the sill, a precaution to keep intruders from sliding it open any further. Whenever I would forget my key, I would stick my arm in as far as it would go and close the window all the way up into the pit of my arm so I could reach around to remove the rod, allowing me to slide it open it all the way and climb through. Could I still close it enough to remove the rod and climb in? Would I still fit?

To the left of the porch is a row of three rhododendrons in full bloom—white, lavender, white. My nose rejoices, this time when I close my eyes and inhale, I swear I can pick up the perfect balance of the leaves sweet-honey scent mingled with the spicy aroma of the flowers, somewhere between nutmeg and cloves. They sit beneath two windows, a smaller one on the left where the front bedroom is, and a larger one next to the dining room table where Granny would sit to type out the church bulletin. If I try hard enough, I can hear the click-clacking of the keys, the ding as she reaches the end of one line, and the glide as she moves it back to begin another. I used to love watching her type. There was graceful beauty in the repetitive process, but it was more than that; she was filled with a serene joy as she prepared the weekly bulletin for her congregation.

The porch leads to the tan-orange door. That door. It’s a solid heavy thing, the kind that hurts your knuckles if you knock too hard. I know what is on the other side of that door, or rather what used to be. I know how the shaggy brown-orange carpet should feel between my toes. I know that as soon as the door opens, you are in the living room, Granny’s armchair sitting in a little nook positioned where she could see out the door if it was propped open on a hot summer day. But that is not how it will look now; Granny has been gone for just over twenty years.

It’s been so long, but it seems like time has stood still for this old house, the same one that wasn’t built to last. I didn’t want to tarnish the memory of what it was, back when it was filled with love and laughter, but I couldn’t resist the overwhelming urge to peek inside.

As if they had a mind of their own, my feet carried me forward.

One step. The butterflies in my stomach awaken.

Two steps. It’s as if I am floating.

Three steps. My entire body tenses.

Four steps. A warmth spreads beneath my cheeks.

Five steps. My skin dampens as my sweat glands are activated.

Six steps. My chest tightens.

Seven steps.

I’m at the gate now. All nervousness is gone.

There are two small steps up.

I reach toward the gate.

As my right-hand closes around the familiar cool metal latch, I start to lift it up.

I stop.

I feel the hairs tingle on the back of my neck.

I hadn’t noticed how empty the street had been, how devoid of life until I realized that I was no longer alone.

I can feel eyes watching me, but I’m not scared.

I release the latch and close my eyes as I take a deep breath.

I open my eyes, and slowly I exhale as I turn toward my audience.

I can't breathe.

T-Bone? How could this be?

My uncle had passed away four years ago. Yet here he is, no more than five feet from me. His long hair still hangs to his shoulders beneath a navy-blue trucker cap. He is wearing an outfit I had seen him wear many times before; it was his special occasion outfit, the one he always wore to Christmas. It consisted of cut off shorts with a pale-yellow dress shirt and a striped tie around his neck. His black socks were pulled midway up his calves, and his favorite black and gray Velcro shoes adorned his feet. He is smiling at me, one of his happy, big, welcoming smiles, the kind that reaches all the way up to his baby-blue eyes.

He turns his palms up and opens his arms in a welcoming gesture.

There is someone else, just behind him.

The woman steps around him.

Juju? I don’t understand.

My aunt stands there surrounded by a flurry of butterflies. She’s been gone fifteen years now too. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled into a low ponytail just above her neck, and her bangs were swept slightly to the right, a necessity due to the cowlick on the front-left side that she loved to hate. She is wearing blue jeans that cover the tops of her black ankle boots and a white button-up shirt under a gray cardigan sweater. She, too, is smiling at me, and just like my uncle, it is a happy welcoming smile that reaches all the way up to her blue-green eyes.

She turns her palms up and opens her arms in a welcoming gesture.

I’m shaking my head vigorously. I don’t know what's going on. I'm not scared, but I am confused.

I open my mouth to ask questions, I want to speak, but nothing comes out.

How did I get here? When did I decide to come back to this place?

I didn’t.

Why can’t I remember how I got here?

This street, Granny's house, they don’t look like this anymore.

Someone bought my Granny’s house, they changed it, painted it yellow. They removed the rhododendrons, the same with the flower beds, and the strawberry patch. It’s all just...grass now.

There is no longer a hanging fuchsia basket—no stone turtle. No gnome. No wind chimes.

The heavy tan-orange door has been replaced by a more modern white one with windows.

This isn't right. What is the last thing I do remember?

No.

I register the sound of a door opening behind me, and I stop shaking.

I don’t need to turn to know what I will see.

But I do.

Though I can still see her whenever I close my eyes, she is even more beautiful than I remembered.

Her gray and white hair sits in tight curls atop her head. On her nose sits the light-blue tinted plastic frames of her rounded glasses, nearly the same color blue of her eyes. She is wearing her Sunday best. On each of her ears sits a large gem clip-on earring. Her dress is polyester, black with white polka dots concentrated on the top and the bottom. Intermixed throughout the polka dots, stretched across the chest, and the base is small thin tiny dot lined diamonds with gray leaves. There is a white string tied in a bow that brings the two sides of the neck together, creating a keyhole. It falls to her lower calves where her white stockings peek out before disappearing into her black canvas shoes, the ones with the rubber tan soles. She wears a red sweater over her shoulders, a tiny brooch on her lapel. I know that in her left pocket is a little travel pack of tissues, and in the right is a stash of hard candies—butterscotch, peppermint, spearmint, and strawberry. She used to sneak them to me during church service whenever sitting in silence became too restless of a task for me. I think it was her trick to occupy my mouth so I wouldn’t start talking.

Like my aunt and uncle, she is smiling at me. Her smile is so welcoming that it fills my soul with happiness.

She stands on the porch, the door left open behind her, and I catch a glimpse of her armchair, exactly where I knew it would be.

She turns her palms up and opens her arms in a welcoming gesture.

I fling open the gate and run to her, striking her hard in the chest as I throw my arms around her.

She hugs me back tightly, as she whispers in my ear, “Welcome home, honey.”