I miss grandma’s house.
I miss hot combs on the stove and curls so tight, that they would reform even after I washed my hair.
I miss spaghetti dinners, and secrets shared on the stairs on Sunday afternoons.
I don’t remember having family meetings, but I miss us, meeting up as a family.
There are more of us now, and we’ve spread across the continents. But our time has gotten shorter and we need each other now more than ever.
I have dreams of recreating the world I grew up in for my children. A dream where most of their relatives live within biking distance. A world where the neighbors knew you by surname. “You are one of those Hayes kids,” they’d say walking past you in the grocery store. “Which one are you?”
It’s true. I’m a Hayes kid. That’s my tribe, and those are my people. I am from them, and I am for them.
Grandma’s house was far from perfect, but it was always full… of stuff, of people, and of love.
That’s what I miss the most.