Pink Bricks

My mother's house has life again. I drove past it last night and in place of the darkened windows and emptiness what I saw was light and warmth and family. Through the windows the most familiar of scenes greeted me. A family at the table in the dining room sharing their meal and time together. A family living their life and building their memories, new memories in this house, in this home. New laughter for the walls to hold, new tears for the foundation to lend strength to and new love to fill each room.

As we moved through this transition my family struggled with the changes in our mother's home. We cried as wallpaper came off, carpet came up and paint went on. But when it was finished, when it was more theirs than hers, more theirs than ours, the tears dried and the smiles grew and we understood the choice was right.

The memories we have of time in that house, of family celebrations, holidays and everyday life remain. They are smarter than us. They do not constrain themselves to individual rooms or a mailing address. They live in us and remain with us no matter where we are. I do not have to see the white wallpaper in the living room or the pink bricks (yes....she had painted them pink!) around the fireplace to remember them. I can see them anytime I please, I simply close my eyes and there they are right beside the blueberries in the kitchen and butterflies in the dining room. All encapsulated with the days of my family's life.

And if those memories are lost, if my path duplicates my mother's then they will be gone from me. But for now, they remain. They remain and new ones grow, new ones like the one from yesterday when I saw joy in my sister's face as her granddaughter took her first steps. This granddaughter, this precious child walked between my sister and her mother, arms out straight, knees locked tight, eyes focused on her Grammy and walked. Walked in her new home, walked right in front of the pink bricks.