The beach houses that my mother would find always seemed so big to my four-year-old perspective.
With a staircase that I remember to be spiraling and
a brown and cream-colored chess board in the middle of a large living room
which was later to be covered in wrapping paper is what this house seemed like to me at the time.
My mother was always frantically scurrying around the house to make sure everything was perfect for my grandmother,
meanwhile, she didn’t mind the imperfections but simply didn’t have the power to say anything.
The uncles were catching up as the oldest was in Chicago and the youngest was living his life in Australia.
My brother, was playing with his GameBoy,
eyes locked to the screen.
My grandfather was looking at the beams and the ceilings to find some reason why the house wasn’t architecturally perfect in his eyes.
And then there was me, either in the corner or on the couch next to my grandmother, where I would play with my Polly Pockets being relatively quiet.
/ / /
I do not remember a lot at the houses except for the people and the feelings surrounding the time.
The presents and all the other material items around me did not matter, especially because I knew the reality of the grandmother’s illness and how she had limited time here on earth with me.
I do remember the smell of the house,
a mixture of palm trees,
salty ocean mist, and
the sand that has been carried many miles,
just for me to feel that unforgettable warmth between my toes.
I also reminisce about her during the holiday season. She wore fuzzy socks. I still have a worn out, baby pink pair of her socks stuffed in the back of my drawers.
From cuddling on the couch, with the chaos of my family
to being on the beach, with the rolling waves and the roaring wind,
her amenity still remains within me.