I love my grandparent’s house. It’s certainly not fancy; it’s a large brick house on a large, grassy lot in the middle of a neighborhood. When they bought it in the 1960’s I bet it was considered fancy … not too many middle class Americans had 5 bedrooms back then, with a two-car garage and a double oven.

Herb and Miriam Graves (Grandma and Grandpa to me) both passed away recently and my parents are temporarily living in their house. Red and white “For Sale” signs are staked into both sides of the property. Normally I embrace change, but the thought of this house being inhabited by strangers freaks me out.

This house has been my solace all my life. I’ve colored on the walls, played for countless hours in the yard and napped in every bed. My Grandma would listen to me chatter about my life while she cooked my favorite things. 

The dining room wallpaper is awful but it’s been the same since I was born, so I kind of love it despite it’s ugliness.

I mean … really. There’s not even anything I can say about this wallpaper.

When I climb into bed and pull up the layers of covers they smell like Downy, just like they always have. Nothing is more comforting than sleeping on sheets that are older than you are.

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