Tucked into my Heart
This morning, in the early hours, the home that in my childhood I knew of as,“Grandma and Grandpa’s house,”burned down. A piece of my heart broke at the revealing of this news. When my grandma relaid this happening to me she said, “As I watched the fire this morning, I remembered that you were born in that house.” An ache welled up in my heart. True, the home had been sold some years ago, but it was there, a visible monument of what once was. To think of it entirely gone brought on a different kind of grief. I think one’s birthplace, or the place they were brought home too, always holds a special spot in your heart. I think of it as the beginning of your identity, rooted there, deep in your soul. Therefore, I suppose it seems only necessary that when the physical reminder is gone you feel a piece of yourself lost as well. Slipped away with the rest of your childhood, becoming only a cherished memory you hold in the collection. In my childhood days, the little yellow house on...
