House on the Hill

Fuzzy memories fill my head from the past years. The chilly breeze of Ohio, the warm hugs of my grandmother, and the days when I saw all my cousins. I was only five then, so all of the memories have perished into nothingness. All except one – my Gaga’s house.

I remember her little house on one of the bigger hills of Ohio. On the front porch, there was a Brutus Buckeye statue, welcoming you into her humble abode. On the inside, there were little candies waiting for me. I would sit with my mom, grandmother, and Gaga for a little while before running off. 

I would go to the basement, where there were plenty of old toys for me to play with. As I walked down the stairs, I could faintly remember the wallpaper that was decorated with bright bird paintings.

Once I got into the basement, I looked through boxes of old toys. A stuffed bunny that the cat pooped on, bubbles, a blow up parrot, and some darts. I always played darts, not that I was very good. My dad would say I was “the best he had ever seen” but we both knew that wasn’t true.

My little brother and I once played with the bubbles outside with my Gramma. I got the blow up parrot stuck in the fountain a hundred times and my cousin warned me about the stuffed bunny. 

I can remember Gaga’s face clearly. Her kind blue eyes and her short silver hair remind me that she was always there for me. Her gentle smile and warm hugs remind me of days when she knew who she was. I barely got to see her but she was my family and all those little moments were all part of one bigger one: my Gaga’s house.

As I remember these bitter-sweet moments, I now realize that these memories of my family are precious. I’ll remember them forever, even though my Gaga doesn’t anymore. Even though she doesn’t remember me, I’ll never forget her.