While I am not today looking forward to going over to my parents’ house, I am thankful I grew up in it. Since Mom died in August we have been continuing to gather there, supporting each other and slowly cleaning out the house. Each week it has become harder for me to go there. I don’t even want to call it Mom’s house, since it’s not anymore. It’s the house we have to clean out; the house we have to pass on to one of my siblings.
But, I am so very grateful for that house. When I was little, I loved having a house the big bad wolf could not blow down. As I grew, I took pride in the monogram on the chimney; a landmark it seemed the whole city knew.
That house has always been home, a safe haven, a welcome. Every time I walked through that door, I could expect love, simple as that. I will always associate that house with the comforting pat of my father’s hand on mine, or the unconditional love in my mother’s kiss. Even though everything has changed with the loss of my parents, my memory is made of brick and will last forever. For that, I am thankful.