I think I'll make a memory

It's the night before I leave to fly home marking the end of my last spring break. I spent the week with my mother. The first half of the week we were in NYC and then we drove through a blizzard (literally, it was declared whiteout, blizzard conditions) to Buffalo, NY. The move to western NY was partly due to my cousin's wedding shower and partly due to the fact that my aunts and uncles would be cleaning out more of my grandmother's house.

I was so nervous to come back here, my grandmother's house. The house that I spend every childhood summer in and 21 Christmas'--we only stayed in the south once for the holidays. In this little white house, I learned that rugs can be hung on the wall as art, furniture can switch rooms and be rearranged in an unending number of ways and that a spot can always be made for "an extra chair" at the dinning room table. I learned to pick my battles, that coffee is good at anytime of the day, that red is the only type of wine to drink and that you need a vigil candle lit next to the kitchen stove at all times. The walls of this home hold so much history. My grandparents bought it right after they were married and a family of love and organized chaos was built over the past 60 years.

As I get ready to say goodbye to this house, an icon of our family, I find myself longing for a quite moment to myself. A moment to say goodbye. Yet, as I sit here and think about when I'll find that quiet (a antonym of our family) moment, I tune into the piano playing in the front room, the boisterous voices coming from the family room, the sniffles from my mom and her sisters in my grandmother's room, and the shuffles of the kitchen roamer getting a bowl of ice cream (my grandfather's favorite snack and late night tradition). These things, these people are what make this house a home. Quite time isn't what I need, family is what I need now and always.