My grandma’s house smells like good memories. Being there reminds me of dressing up to play House; sitting by the washing machine for time-out; eating grandma’s chocolate malts; playing Mother May I in the backyard; dancing with cousins in the basement; coloring pictures for the fridge; snapping beans on the patio; waking up to grandma’s tickly kisses. I love being there. Her house will always have a piece of my heart in it, hidden away in the walls and carpets and doors.
If no one loved that house or associated it with happiness, it would just be a skeleton. Because people choose to love it, it’s a home. Life is like that; it becomes hollow if we don’t choose to see the good. Simply existing doesn’t cut it. We only get one life, and frankly it’s easier to focus on the bad stuff: the leaky roof, the drafty windows, the too-small TV. We have to choose to see the beauty in it. We have to look for sweatpants and hot chocolate and the smell of mail and wind-chimes and daffodils and children and sunsets and God. We have to live and love and fill the world with beauty; we have to make our house into a home.