The Old House

I visited my grandparents today. Their home has never changed in all the years I’ve visited since my life began. The white ceiling is stained in shades of orange and peach from the tobacco pipe Jim puffs on with grandeur. The smell put me off the idea of smoking, but as an adult, there is comfort in that sweet, smoky fragrance. Anne is forever shrinking, and has been for as long as I can remember. She is small, but her spirit and her heart are huge. I sneak off amidst adult conversation, as I did in my youth, to admire the trinkets hidden away in the dining room. All brass and silver, marks and dents from years of seeing children grow and bring grandchildren home. There’s a small bell, resembling a bobbie’s hat. Its ring is less impactful than years ago. A merry-go-round, ornate horses frozen mid-leap for decades, and the little mouse I would hide in a pinafore pocket, And the candlestick I would hook my finger into and become Scrooge for an evening. Nothing moves in their home, everything is static, frozen in a place, a time, well before my own. I find comfort in the familiar, in Anne’s cardigans and fairies, in Jim’s old movies that played on loop. Forever thankful that, while they age, their home is a constant reminder of childhood bliss.