When we walk into the house, it seems smaller than I remember. Even though I was 18 the last time I was there, my memories of the place I called home for 11 years of my life are obviously distorted. We stood in the foyer for several minutes, introducing each other and our families. I am immediately hit with the time I stood in the same spot with my grandmother. It was nighttime and she was walking toward me from the hallway. She looked exactly like the "Fat Lady" from my old neighborhood. My heart jumped and I thought my life was over.
How could it be, I thought to myself, Baubie is the Fat Lady?
I think about sharing that memory with everyone, but change my mind. Every turn we take, toward the living room, which once housed our big projection screen TV and our brown sectional couch we called "The Pit"--the one I brought to college with me, into the dining room, which was once the place where we ate large family meals together, and where once our oak dining room table--the one that now sits in the dining room in my house, to the kitchen, the family room, the garage, the hallway, bedrooms, bathrooms, the basement. Memories fill my mind and are spewed out of my mouth almost faster than I can get the words out. It all looks so different, but also the same.
I was seven when we moved into the house. Their oldest was just a baby, and was already in college. He was getting ready to leave the house for the day and touched knuckles with his father; a small gesture of love. I never touched knuckles with my dad, but he always said, "be
careful," whenever we left the house.
Be careful.
Be careful.
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