Home

I grew up in a small country town. My grandma’s house was built in the 1920s. It had big porch where I would spend most my days on a rocking chair watching the people pass by. The yellow front softened the look of the old green tin roof. A small brown door would lead to a modest living room where pictures of loved ones covered the wooden walls. The tight dark hallway guided you into the deepest parts of the house and out into the backyard where the crisp country air greeted you with freshness. On summer days, little rays of sunshine and a warm breeze would seep through the holes of the aging wood giving light to the darkness. Kitchen pans covered the floor on rainy days, and the sound of drops falling on the tin roof forever engraved in your memories like a never ending song, a reminder of how lucky you were to have a roof over your head. Hurricane season was the hardest, praying the nails would be strong enough to hold the structure, to keep it in place, to keep us from the wind that could tear away the place you love. Slowly, the town began to change. The houses became more resistant to the storms. Our wood walls were replaced by sandstone bricks and covered by concrete; sturdy and safe. Bright colors replaced the once dark wood that covered the hallway. No more holes on the walls that would let the breeze and the light peak through. The roof, no longer tin, was strong and silent on stormy nights. A new beginning for an old house, a safe place to call home.