Today, I’m thinking about the pale blue painted walls of my grandparents’ house–specifically, the family room. And the coffee table, ornamented with East Asian coasters and robin ceramics. My grandmother always loved to feed the birds outside. I think of the still-life art–a bowl of fruit she painted–that now hangs in my own home. Each time I glance at it, I picture it in its first, real home. Its natural habitat was the pale blue walls.
A Home Full of Joy
I mourn over its memory—a place, where years of happy Christmases and sleepovers and Thanksgivings, that will no longer flourish. My own family will no longer go there. I will not sit on the matching blue carpet to play “hot and cold” with my grandfather. I will not have to worry about keeping my hands off the crystal vase by the fireplace. Most of these things have found a new home, but some have become fixtures in my own home. They bring echoes of bittersweet yearning when I see them.
I think of the excitement when I saw the letter from Santa on the fireplace…the sound of my grandfather’s voice when I was getting warmer…the smell of the eggnog during Thanksgiving. The way the punch bowl’s ladle “plunked” when you dipped in for a glass still lingers in my mind all these years later. I’m so glad I can hold on to these memories of my grandparents’ home.
Now, I am full of hurt from the cruel prick of reality. The old house is gone. My grandparents are gone. I am left here, desperately clinging and searching through my mind to remember every detail I can so that I may not forget. Only a few of my family has survived, and the pale blue walls, sold to a new family with new memories to be made, are likely no longer pale blue.
Grief and the Reality of Loss
Loss is a strange thing. It can keep you paralyzed for years. I find myself desperately trying to rid myself of the residual pain, but also grasping tightly to keep hold of something I don’t always understand. At times, I don’t want to remember. But at other moments…I want nothing more than to explore the recollections I pushed aside so many years ago.
But all of my memories of my grandparents’ home are stored, guarded, cherished…deep. I put them there on purpose. If I were to recall all of these nostalgic, beautiful moments at all times of the day, I would be holding on to a past that I could never replicate. I now try to keep much of my childhood in the cavernous pockets of my mind…a place where I can visit, but not stay for long. Its memory is bitter…it’s sweet. But most of all, it is mine to keep.
Note: I had so much trouble choosing an image for this! Nothing quite compares to the beauty of a memory, does it? I feel so blessed to have known true love and kindness from my grandparents. ❤️
Some Topics for Discussion
Do you have some sweet memories of your grandparents’ home–your own home, or a trusted family member? Did it leave a big impression on you years later? Leave a comment below ⬇️
A Lil’ Disclaimer about comments:
This blog is meant to be a springboard for discussions on some tough topics. It’s so easy to feel alone, but you’re not!
That hurt you feel? Someone knows it, too.
It doesn’t mean your hurt is less important. It means that you’ve got someone out there that is bound to understand. At least a little.
Things can get tricky. Not all people are kind. But most are just trying to survive.
It’s important to honor the nuances in what someone else is going through, too. Your experience is your own.
It’s complicated, yes.
I’m happy to encourage others to share their stories. Like on any other platform, vulnerability comes with risks. Don’t share unless you feel comfortable. You can count on me in the meantime to put it all out there. 😅
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