The doorbell rang a few weeks back and I popped downstairs and greeted a woman standing outside. She began apologetically for the inconvenience and revealed this was the house she grew up in.
I held my breath as my heart leapt and stepped out on the porch.
She’d driven past the house over the years and wanted to stop by but never did until this moment.
We chatted more and eventually walked around to the back yard.
She had answers to questions about some of the peculiarities of the place.
It was a workday and we agreed to reconvene. She’d gather family photos of the home and we’d do a tour. Texting back and forth in the meantime I invited her to include other family members.
Today she and her cousin (who also spent part of her childhood here) came by with breakfast goods and stacks of photos and albums.
We spent hours going through their childhood in this house, matching photos of what has changed after several renovations, wall removals and shifting of rooms. But the bones are still there. The bookshelves her grandfather made. The crack in the front steps. The faint circle in the backyard that used to be a pond. The yellow basement walls she painted for her birthday party.
And all the Christmases — a favorite holiday of her grandparents where they decked the entire house and garage in lights and filled every corner with decorations.
She asked if we celebrated Christmas and I was able to quickly pull up this photo from the day we moved in (same living room as above… just a much smaller tree).
We parted ways with plans to reconnect and I’m one step closer to sending a letter to the owners of the house where I grew up, with hopes their hearts are as open.
