A house built from scratch, filled with robust walls, fresh paint, and hearts filled with newlyweds. That’s home for me. It’s the only home that I can remember. The only home that has watched me grow, watched me cry, watched me laugh, fall, stumble, grow angry, love, and dream. The only house that has fought through immense storms and difficult times. The only house that has watched family come and go. The only house that has welcomed in friends, family, and strangers. My house in Greece, New York.
As we grow old, our memories fade and our eyes become weaker. We begin to anticipate the future, and look forward, forgetting to look back. But a house can never look forward. Physically it is stable, apart from Mother Nature nipping and breaking small pieces, throwing them into the real world, but mentally, our house has seen it all. She knows your deepest secrets, she has heard your prayers, sensed your fear, but has kept every memory and holds it within your walls.
My house remembers everything, like the time my family and I held our first holiday party. The kitchen filled the air with sweetness and salt soaking into our walls and floors. The china laid playfully waiting for the warmness of food and hands to touch. She remembers my first true love, how we sat on the sofa and laughed until we could no longer speak. My house remembers my success, my failures, and my adventures. That’s the beauty of my house, because no matter how old I grow, she will always cherish each memory. From the biggest Italian family shouting and talking over each other to the smallest moment of my puppies first successful trick, she has watched and embedded that memory into her aging pipes and pink insulation.
The place where I live is my personal memory book. She writes down every memory that she witnesses and packs them away, hidden in the roots of her foundation and the touch of the Earth’s surface. She is my home and my heart, one-page flip at a time.