Grandma's House
My maternal grandparents have always been two of my favorite people in the world. Visiting their home on the west side of Michigan, just five minutes from Lake Michigan, was always a treat. We have a small family, so we would drive across the state for holidays, summer breaks, or simply to spend time with them. That house was the heart of our gatherings—so many memories, so much love.
When I moved to Texas, I knew there would come a time when I might not be able to visit them—or their home—again. Still, I was lucky. I got to visit multiple times, as they lived well into their nineties.
Even now, I can picture everything: Gramps’ shaving tools lined neatly in the bathroom, the scent of his soap. His workout wear, piled high on the shelf behind the washer—each shirt worn thin with years of use. Grandma’s many piles of denim, her collection of shoes and jewelry, each piece with its own story. The knick-knacks tucked into every corner, each shelf a small museum of memories. Their chairs sat near the window, just where we could see them as we pulled into the driveway. That sight always marked the end of what felt like a long journey—one that began hours earlier at the giant tire outside Detroit and ended with arms open wide and a house full of warmth, ginger snaps, and vegetable soup.
Even now, as I document the spaces and objects in their home, I can hear their voices, smell the familiar scents, and see the details as if no time has passed. Their house wasn’t just a place—it was a feeling, a rhythm, a memory etched deep. It was love.
