Another goodbye, another farewell.
A home that brought so many together
for so many
years.
That was grandma’s house.
A small house made of wood, concrete, and a tin roof.
A house that was ravaged by a hurricane
once, then rebuilt just the same.
There was the
Lonely Room
as grandma called it.
And there she had her old sowing machine.
“Come put this string through the needle hole, boy. Your grandmammy don’t see too well no more,” I remember her saying.
I got a little sentimental.
Family homes above all structures hold time forever,
between its walls where the memories are
not memories,
but
moments original,
and
live.
We merely walk amongst the past in their present.
Things change, our loved ones move on,
and so must we,
so must I.
Only difference is, I never want to forget
Grandma’s House.
