A Portrait of My Grandparents' Home

You pull up in front of a white paneled home. Its lawn has long since fallen into disarray, weeds poking out of what appears to be every gap in the grass. A statue of Mary, beheaded by some rowdy teenagers and unreplaced, sits at the foot of a set of rotting wooden stairs leading up to a heavy white and green door. Entering there, you step onto what was once a sun porch, but has now become a cluttered assortment of random items that have accumulated there over the years. Though flanked with wide windows, the room is always cold when you visit, the sunlight filtering in doing nothing to chase away the chill of the brisk winter wind.

Passing through the thin barrier the inner door provides, you enter into a small living room. There is barely enough space for a small couch and a chair, and the small television always distorts the picture on the screen, giving it an eerie green glow. Everything in the house is covered in a layer of dirt and dust from the surrounding factories that always seems to stick to your skin and leave you feeling dirtier than before. Off to the right is a small bedroom that you know your mother and her sister shared throughout their childhood, but which is now also filled with clutter and books scattered about. On one wall hangs a portrait of a cowboy ripped out of an old magazine. It is unsigned by anyone important, but you always remember to smile at one of the only things your grandfather ever thought to frame, strange though that may be.

The hallway in front of you is narrow, so thin that with the cabinet that juts out into the already limited space, you have to turn to the side to simply reach the kitchen. Upon first entering the hallway, the bathroom, crammed with all the necessary amenities, lays in a state of decay. Ceiling tiles have fallen, and the gaping holes provide views of pipes and insulation. A few more steps down is your grandparents room, with just enough room on either side to allow them to get around. Inside, your grandfather sleeps. Even at his age, he works as a night guard in the oil refineries that spring up from the surrounding area like perennial flowers. Your already limited time with him is limited even more by his routine, leading you to treasure the small time you do get to spend with him on this Christmas Day.

The hallway ends in a small kitchen, in which your grandmother sits, stirring a pot of sauerkraut on the antique gas stove that seems to have always been there. Unlike the porch, the kitchen is warm, and you smile when your grandmother shuffles over to give you a hug. Careful not to step on the air hose line that provides her with the life-giving oxygen, you plop yourself down at the dining room table in the center and begin to talk. You sit and listen to the wild stories your grandmother tells you, the inner jokes about something dumb your mother did when she was a child as your mother rolls her eyes and turns back to the cooking that she has taken over. It is warm, and nice, despite the grime that's around you. For hours you sit and laugh as she tells stories that you've heard before, but you don't mind, because you can only visit once a year, and each moment is like a treasured gem you wish to hoard in your heart like a covetous old prospector.

Adjoining the kitchen is a back porch turned extra pantry/ dishes storage. In all the years you've visited, you've never seen the back end of it, nor the attic or the basement. Too much debris has accumulated over the years that those rooms have largely been nonoperational since you've been alive. A small flight of stairs leads you out into a small backyard, barely enough room for the two dogs they always had to run around in. Over to the right sits several bushes of flowers, their bright purple hues popping against the drab grey of the houses behind.

Over to your left, you know that a small lake lies at the end of the road, a body of water polluted by the runoff from the factories and partially frozen over in the chilling air. As you hear your grandmother calling for you to come back inside, you smile to yourself. Though no grand estate, this castle that houses the king and queen of your mother's childhood stands as a fortress against the world, a place where love (and some mild well-intentioned poking fun at each other) reigns supreme. You enter back into the house and allow the door to swing shut, trapping the laughter within the bubble of your grandparents' home.