I wander through this house that is not my home. Looking a pictures. Dusting off memories. Catching parts of home in parts of a foreign house with flamingos out by the pool.
It may not sit in the middle of a street in a working class neighborhood in the suburbs of Detroit, but the foundation is the same. Images of my grandmother.

Images of my childhood, displayed, framed, locked. I can hear the giggles and feel the wonder and confusion. I don’t so much remember as I relive.

I don’t recall as much as I feel the hem of that dress as I twirl and twirl. I feel the straps on my shoulders, scratching my sunburn and falling off and on my skinny shoulder blade. I can smell my baby brother’s powder.

I look in amazement at the changes in the photo sitting beside.

I can hear the song I made the DJ play, because his love is better than ice cream and everyone does know how to fight-especially siblings.

I look at the photo behind these photos.

I wonder what sort of squabbles will shape their relationship. I wonder what the photo that will eventually sit beside these memories will look like. Will she be in a veil? He in a tux? Years later, will they visit me in a different state with a different address and piece together the home they grew up in?

I’m sure I will have displays like these of my own. Snippets of life scattered through out my house. They can wander and relive and wonder. Feel at home in a house not the same.

Giggle. Hug. Relax.