When my sister left the country, we were saying goodbye not just to them, but to the house that has been one of the constants throughout my whole life. My Grandad built it at the beginning of the 1950s and lived in it with my Grandma for the next 60 years or so. My Grandma then sadly died, followed swiftly by my Grandad, and my sister and her family have lived in it for the last three years.
It feels silly to feel so attached to a house, but it has just always been there. I even cried when my brother-in-law moved the kitchen door. I have a bad memory, but if I shut my eyes now I can walk through the whole house, (being careful on the shiny parquet floor), just as it always was when I was small. I can picture every detail and smell every smell.
Just to make sure I don’t ever forget, these are some of the things I remember most vividly about my Grandma and Grandad and their house:
I remember the closeness between them, never seeing one without the other.
I remember the smell of sage and onion as you came through the side door into the kitchen, even though I don’t remember eating many roast dinners. View Post