grandfather

i’ve spent the past three months living at my grandfather’s house.

the house he imagined up and built with his own hands in the late 40s and early 50s.

the house where my mum learned to walk and talk and sew and cook and love and be generally the awesomest.

the house where my grandmother majored in hospitality.

the house that sits on a quiet street less than a kilometre from the house where my dad grew up.

the house where my grandfather taught me how to build cubby houses and my grandmother taught me how to eat too much butter and cream.

the house where i stuck some orange seeds up my nose as a toddler... a life highlight.

the house where i learned to love cousins and strangers in equal measure.

the house where i felt like i just might be able to accomplish anything because i learned how to walk on stilts.

the house where i sung old war songs in the lounge around the piano with my sister and grandmother, even though none of us knew the melodies or lyrics.

the house where i played twister with my grandparents when my grandmother was 79 and dying of cancer.

the house that inexplicably has carpet in the bathroom. it didn’t occur to me that carpet in the bathroom was weird when i was growing up.

ps. it is.

the house that has real hot water. i’ve spent most of my twenties living in rented townhouses with warm water masquerading as hot. the thrill of real hot water (ie the possibility of third degree burns around every corner) is wonderful.

the house where my neighbours know me because they have been witnesses to my lifetime of cubby house building and stilt-walking genius.

the house that grew as my grandparent’s family grew. it wasn’t in a hurry to be big and empty. it was patient and grew slowly, only adding rooms when it knew they would be full of life.

the house won’t be around for too much longer so i’m trying to learn as much from it as i can in these coming weeks. i hope that when i eventually grow up... and build my permanent cubby house to live in... that it looks a little like this house that i love. i hope there will be music and love and a never-ending supply of butter and cream. i hope there will be something weird about it (like a carpeted bathroom) to remind me that it’s good to confidently do stuff that nobody else is doing. i hope that less than a kilometre from where it sits, i will find people who love me and will cheer me on like my dad did for my mum. i hope that my life is balanced enough to allow for stilt walking. i hope i remember to be patient... to not chase after big things that make me empty, but instead to wait patiently and add only those things which are full of life. i hope i can always find the child within me who believes that they can accomplish anything. i hope i know my neighbours. i hope my house is not lukewarm... i want it to be thrilling in its pursuit of ‘real’.

i’ve spent the past three months living at my grandfather’s house and i’ve loved every second of it. it will come as no surprise to those who know me to hear that i have cried a few tears in those months... mostly because i’m a giant sook... but also because there’s just a lot of wallpaper everywhere.