Its a long way down to the place where we started from

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.

My Grandmother and Mother

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.

My brother and I

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.

My brother and I

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.

Brother and sister

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.


  1. This is a beautiful post. I didn’t know your parents didn’t live in Detroit anymore. But they still have a home in Michigan, right?

  2. That was beautifully written. It is an amazing thing remembering your childhood and wondering what’s in store for you own little ones.

  3. you made me cry…..evil woman!!!

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