Once stepping foot through the front door, my problems that I thought were so dramatic did not seem as big anymore. Mommom’s house wasn’t like my house in Newark, Delaware. No, it was a majestical difference with that indescribable smell once you stepped foot outside of the car into the salty air. The singing of birds playing in the trees and the incessant buzz of neighbors mowing their lawns. The house was not extravagant. No, just a normal beach house with a normal kitchen, normal sized family room and dining room. Each wall plastered with framed photos of my entire family. Photos of my mother and her siblings from when they were little placed next to countless embarrassing pictures of me and my sisters and cousins from our younger days. Little nick-nacks sat on the counter of every dresser in the house from the various and numerous countries my grandmother visited over the years. Drawings and art pieces hung up from school projects when we were younger-colorful scribbles that my Mommom viewed as beautiful art. Everyone in this family thought of here as their home. Where my aunts and uncles shared their childhood memories, where they learned how to ride a bike for the first time, where they had learned to swim for the first time. It didn’t matter that we’ve all grown up, the memories stuck to the house like glue. They grew up in the same rooms we spent our summer days in, swimming in the same pool we learned to swim in, riding their bikes down the same exact trails that we ride off of early every
Once stepping foot through the front door, my problems that I thought were so dramatic did not seem as big anymore. Mommom’s house wasn’t like my house in Newark, Delaware. No, it was a majestical difference with that indescribable smell once you stepped foot outside of the car into the salty air. The singing of birds playing in the trees and the incessant buzz of neighbors mowing their lawns. The house was not extravagant. No, just a normal beach house with a normal kitchen, normal sized family room and dining room. Each wall plastered with framed photos of my entire family. Photos of my mother and her siblings from when they were little placed next to countless embarrassing pictures of me and my sisters and cousins from our younger days. Little nick-nacks sat on the counter of every dresser in the house from the various and numerous countries my grandmother visited over the years. Drawings and art pieces hung up from school projects when we were younger-colorful scribbles that my Mommom viewed as beautiful art. Everyone in this family thought of here as their home. Where my aunts and uncles shared their childhood memories, where they learned how to ride a bike for the first time, where they had learned to swim for the first time. It didn’t matter that we’ve all grown up, the memories stuck to the house like glue. They grew up in the same rooms we spent our summer days in, swimming in the same pool we learned to swim in, riding their bikes down the same exact trails that we ride off of early every