A House to Remember
I have moved in and out of many houses throughout the years, but none of them were as important to me as the house in which I grew up. I must admit that this house, although enormous, was neither the nicest nor the most comfortable house, yet my nostalgic nature has propelled me to treasure that house above all others. Having parted it for almost ten years, some details of the house are out of my grasp. The memory of the house now stands as a symbol of my childhood. It is the only place that I remember nothing but pure happiness, suffused with youthful innocence and carefree laughter that would never fade.
The front yard of the house was a vacant space with a large concrete sink conspicuously imposed in one corner. Grandma used to stand upon the red brick pavement in front of this sink every morning; cleaning vegetables for meals, washing clothes from the day before, or scrubbing pots and bowls in soapy water.
When grandma was doing her chores at the sink, I would stagger into the yard with my little green wooden chair dragging behind, set it a few feet from grandma, sit down and watch her hands maneuver among the items with fascinated eyes. Every now and then, along the clanks of hardware, some bubbles struggled free of gravity and rose into the air. That was when I would routinely utter an excited yelp and kick back my chair to chase the bubbles, which reflected sunlight more colorfully than crystal balls in the cheerful crisp mornings. If I were lucky, grandma would give me a little basin with water and a few drops of dish soap in which to play with. The procedure was always...