Many Paths

There was I by the age of 5.

I still could remember a time where things were simple and cheerful. A time where my Grandma had a large garden with so much life and space.

Some of my memories were hazy, but I could still tell how the place looked precisely. It had multiple entrances: The first was a narrow passage that connected it from the garage to the there, but it was barely used.

The second was through the kitchen, the most common one where everyone in the family would go there whenever we visited Grandma. The kitchen was small, but I fondly remember when she started cooking for us and the fruit she harvested. And we were so many back then.

The next entrance was through the semi-hidden basement next to the stairs that led to a second floor for the living room. The basement itself hadn't much use except throwing old stuff away like toys, sewing tools, clothes, and more. A door at the bottom of the room was sealed, but we were never allowed to go through there. I never understood why.

The other entrance was where the piano was in the second living room where the TV was. Too bad the piano stopped working some time ago, and just decoration by that point. The door was the sliding windows which gave a fantastic center-view of the backyard and garden. The favorite part of the house was when there were parties.

Finally, there was Grandma's house. What makes it different from the others was because she had a balcony with stairs to go directly.

So many paths to go, and it is hard to imagine how things would go if my Grandma could keep the house, but it was too big for her alone.

The backyard was another story. It was covered with plants across the walls, giant trees, and flowers scattered around unless you count the potted plants.

I remember when I played with my Grandpa on the grass, at least, from one of the photos I saw before. My cousins also liked to play outdoors due to the sheer size and sometimes playing hide-and-seek. The countless birthday parties and reunions that were being held.

Those were happy times, but the green grass would turn dry.

That house would become empty and silent. My Grandma would be alone as she and Grandpa lived separately. All their children were already getting old, and her grandchildren were most of her company.

Hard to say. As I grew older, I started to see things differently. What awaits us when our own homes, our sanctuaries, would become a deserted island?

It wasn't until years later that she moved out to a much smaller, comfy house than that one. A true shame, but it couldn't be helped in the end.

All those roses, sunflowers, tulips, vines, and tomatoes... forgotten.

There isn't much, but it was always home as long I could visit Grandma and enjoy her famous Beef Soup. Oh, those memories of innocence.

How much I wished I would do to talk to her again. Even after I tried to learn her recipe, it was clear that it would be impossible for me or my mother to get the flavor's likeness. All the plants she dearly took care of and grew by herself. If it was possible but couldn't due to the type of climate in the city. There was no way to plant a tree of pears.

We couldn't turn back time and wishing her to be with us. But one had to learn to move on. I guess memories are the only thing that keeps her alive. I'm sure she still smiling, somewhere, up there.