The House that Holds Memories
Rebecca Mannor, Division 1, 6th grade #ws16e-s2d1

“Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.” Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. once made this statement.
This is the first thought that occurs to me when I go to the house that holds my memories and the memories of those before me. The traditions and values of my family are truly embedded in this special place. Just the thought of being there envelops me like a cozy, soft blanket, making me feel secure and loved.

Through the entranceway to the right of my grandparents’ house, is a chintz-filled room. Antiques line the walls and curio cabinets. The room is fit for royalty. Beyond that room, the house is warm and inviting. My grandparents’ reclining chairs attract my brother and I every time we set our eyes on them. Located in a prime position to watch television, we cannot help ourselves but fight over them. My brother and I dash for it especially when there is a big, warm, fuzzy blanket that covers us and keeps us snug.

Sporadic tapping at the windowpane can be distracting. It is simply the birds calling for food. Black and white magpies shyly take the food we offer them from a respectful distance when we put it on the outside table. However, sulfur crested cockatoos screech loudly, demanding that we hand feed them instantaneously. If our family is not feeding the birds, we sit quietly over by the fishpond admiring the koi fish in awe. When it is hot outside, we pick oranges and make juice using my grandmother’s old juicer. What a refreshing treat! I also help my grandparents pick fruits, vegetables, and herbs from their garden to add to our home cooked hearty meals. Helping them to string up the wet laundry outside on the washing line and watching the damp, drying clothes flap in the crisp wind is a novelty.

My grandmother tells me of my cousin when she was a young girl exploring the dark depths of the garden looking for fairies, just as my mother looked for fairy rings when she was young. It is a garden filled with enchantment, making the idea of fairies not that farfetched. The neighbor’s cats slink through the bushes, trying to sneak up on unsuspecting lizards basking in the sun, while frogs croak their swampy melody. I find myself spending most of the time in the overgrown, magical garden, lost in a never-ending nature’s symphony.
Inside, faded and new photos adorn the walls, bringing back fond memories of places and people that I am linked to. All of us talk and giggle without inhibition. The peal of laughter echoing off the walls and light filtering through the windows warms my heart. My grandparent’s house is my favorite place of all time. It is the people, the stories, and the love, that I want to come home to.
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