The House

A Story by Brennan Garcia

Wrote this after a long period of time in which I thought about my brief experiences with my grandfather. He wasn't a very vocal man.

As I stepped into the house I had come to know only through stories and pictures my father had long before exposed me to, I felt a sense of entitlement among all the remnants and possessions of my estranged grandfather. It was particularly tough on my father, because of the connection he and my grandfather shared. He once told me about how he and his father stayed up all night trading stories from their childhood. I wanted that between my dad and I, but I never had the courage to bring up such a topic. The house itself stood sullen. A time machine, containing all the memories and events that my grandfather had procured over his life. I couldn’t help but feel saddened by this. All of his achievements and glories were frozen in time for me to see, but at the same time, were worth nothing in the material world.

The immediate, potent odor of nostalgia and adolescence struck me like a lightning bolt. This wasn’t my grandfather’s childhood home, but his own. The reason why I bring up nostalgia and adolescence is because, my grandfather was a very sentimental man. He never really kept up-to-date with the newest fashion or technology. Instead, he kept and tailored his lifestyle to what he was accustomed to as a child. This meant that the furniture and overall look of the house was very 40s and 50s. The living room, previously populated with conversation and life, sat barron and untouched. Dust on the windowsills, shelves, and picture frames. Inside these picture frames, for all to see and dwell upon, were photographs of my grandfather’s first and last love. She had died from a heart implication a few years before his own death. Also sitting in these lonely frames were several pictures of my dad as a child. I appreciated and respected my estranged grandfather for the passion and love he contained for his family.

We went deeper in the house. The kitchen, where my grandfather’s little family sat and shared meals together, was now in disarray. The fridge, showing its age, was ready to be retired from use, as were all the alliances in that room. The kitchen table, which had previously carried hundreds and hundreds of meals, sat cracked and weary of its own sense of frailty. My father at this point, started to cry. I had never seen my father shed a tear during my entire life, but this, to me, seemed justified. I felt as if my father needed time alone to bask and recollect his memories. I slowly backed away and continued to walk through the foreign home. This was an eery feeling. Not only was this a completely new place, but a completely different time. Every room I was fortunate enough to see contained some sort of treasure that opened new doors of thinking within my ignorant mind. The most interesting room in my opinion, was the attic.

The attic, as I mentioned previously, was the most hauntingly beautiful room I have come to discover in my life. The carpet stairs at the bottom of the room led upwards into the darkness. As terrifying as this seemed, I knew that something was up there. As I scampered up the stairs, I started to see pictures lining the walls around me. Pictures of her. My grandfather’s wife. These weren’t ordinary pictures, but pictures from her childhood as well as my grandfather’s childhood. One picture contained him and her at school, lunchboxes and backpacks in hand. They couldn’t have been more than twelve years old at the time. I soon realized that their love and companionship had existed long before their wedding. They had known each other most of their lives.

After studying these photos for what seemed like forever, I made my way to the top of the staircase. I found myself in the smallest, darkest room in the house. Among the darkness, I saw a small cabinet protruding a few feet from the wall. It was opened. I pulled back the small wood panel only to find an ammunition container. I was a bit appalled by this, but after minutes of trying to open it, I had discovered that this contained houses literally hundreds of hand-written notes, composed by my grandfather. Upon further inspection, I had come to the conclusion that these notes documented my grandfather’s life. Randomly, I picked up one letter. The frail and faded paper read “October 5th, 1952”. As I read, I learned more and more about my grandfather. He talked about everything, and I mean everything. The first time he went to the dentist, the first day of elementary school, the first day of football practice, and most importantly, the first day he met the girl he’d someday marry.

After two and a half hours of reading, I had come to the more recent notes. In fact, the last note I read was two months before my grandfather died. My eyes became tired, and started to drip with the sorrow I had felt for my grandfather. This final letter talked about his feelings toward everything that had happened in his life. He talked about adolescence, his child, and the death of his wife. The last sentence of this letter was and still is the most hauntingly beautiful thing that I have ever read. “I love her. My soul screams for her return. I didn’t even believe that souls existed, but she made me want to believe.”

Walking back down the stairs, leaving those letters behind, I couldn’t help but reflect on them. I reunited with my father. He was carrying memories and aspects of his childhood that he simply couldn’t leave in that house. As we walked out of the front door, the sun dimly lit the path to our car. I got in and kept completely silent. That afternoon was and still is significant in my life. I still didn’t know who my grandfather was, but I received comforting incite which made my visions of him that much more appealing. The house itself still sits in the same place. My grandfather’s life and his memories are comparable in a way. As soon as he took his last breath, they both faded into existence.