10/26/2025
“Grandparent’s House”
It’s not just a house.
It’s a sanctuary.
Tucked on the corner of an ordinary street,
But home to me.
It smelled like cinnamon rolls and Ivory soap,
Like worn leather Bibles and hope.
Like something steady—
When the world outside wasn’t.
The floor creaked like it knew our footsteps,
Like it had memorized our laughter
And held it close
In case we forgot how to be joyful someday.
The couch had dents in just the right places
From years of bedtime stories,
Kleenex tucked in sleeves,
And hands folded in prayer that no one else saw.
Their house was a quiet kind of magic—
No glitter, no noise, just safety.
Just people who saw you fully
Even when you didn’t say a word.
They are soft in a way that makes you brave,
Strong in a way that never makes a sound.
They don’t ask the world to notice them—
But somehow, everything good came from their touch.
When the world was too sharp,
Their arms softened it.
When I doubted myself,
They believed loud enough for all of us.
And maybe that’s the thing about grandparents—
They never truly leave.
They build homes in hearts,
And teach you how to return to them
Whenever the world gets too heavy.
Because their house wasn’t just a place.
It was a feeling.
And I’ll spend the rest of my life
Trying to give it away
The way they gave it to me.