Nana’s House

The absence of stress, mixed with childhood naivety, was a sweet escape we only found at Nana’s house. It seeped from the walls, into the food, and through the Steve Harvey Morning Show, trapping our jubilation. Her house was a sanctuary—whether it came as a tight hug or a quiet game of Scrabble. Prepubescent struggles and clashes with our parents always led my cousins and I to her old barn-style house in the woods. What was once called a punishment became a place of comfort and I came to love the smell of flour, gardening tools, and peace. Nana’s house held the best parts of my childhood, safely wrapped in soft, wrinkled hands. Ever since we were babies, we were always bursting with energy—dance being the outlet. With the latest K-Pop songs vibrating through the kitchen and failed mug cake attempts littering the counters, my cousins and I were hysterical. We’d spent hours learning the newest dances and turning the kitchen into our stage. Movie nights, munching over-seasoned popcorn, and laughable PG-13 films—our “Nana-rated” favorites—made us feel like kids again. Even the sun felt warmer there.

Although simple, every year at my birthday celebrations she would say the exact same thing; “love yourself, no matter what you do, do it with love for others and do it with love for yourself.” In sixth grade, Covid-19 hit me like a freight train, and I was mentally at my lowest. Every breath felt forced, decorated with apathy and eventually, I was diagnosed with clinical depression. Shadows of my parent’s expectations for school and the scars littered on my wrist overcame me to the point of paralyzing embarrassment, and the only place I found comfort was Nana’s house. Christmas Break, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, Thanksgiving—every school holiday was a chance to breathe; to go home to my grandmother. Without my Nana, my childhood would be incomplete, she was a woman of little words but when she spoke, my world shook.

These days of high school, I have slowly discontinued my visits to Nana’s house. Her teachings have followed me through life, and soon I began my own path of self discovery and love. The comfort of her house ceased to become a necessity to ease my anxiety, as I knew I would always have a home away from home if I need it. The heartbreaking part of life is watching your loved one grow older—my Nana’s is no longer able to stand from her chair without assistance, she no longer walks as fast and every time I visit I can’t help to stare at her bright blue cane as she leans on it. I have learned through my path of self journey that all things are temporary and memory is it what makes it last. Now, as I admire her wrinkled smile and kind eyes, I make time to visit her and try to repay even a quarter of the kindness she has shown to me throughout my childhood.

Our Nana is a soft, gentle lady, who never tolerated negativity or violence, even in fiction. Her light shone through the blinds she opened each morning—the sun no match for the glow that radiated from within her. Her presence is what made Nana’s house “Nana’s house.” Each day was filled with the patter of childish feet and nonsensical giggles on our tiny cots. Those moments were painted with the warmth of our Nana’s love. Time thinned at her home—weekends became filled with studying, dance classes, or laughter with distant friends. Gone were the creaky halls and fond smiles we once took for granted. The childhood our Nana cultivated for us was like a gold string, stretching thinner as we moved farther on with our lives—yet always leading us back. Our beginning always started from a sun, as gentle as the stroke of a cheek coming from inside the blinds.