The first home I remember is my grandparent’s big yellow house on Liberty Street in South Lyon, Michigan.
The big yellow house so many called home at different times in their lives. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and for a short time, my mom, my brother Billy and me.
The big yellow house where I went for sleep-overs and holidays even after my mom and dad got married and we moved to the trailer park in Plymouth, Michigan. I was 4.
The big yellow house where my grandma let me hide in her apron when thunder cracked one early morning during the first thunderstorm I can remember.
The big yellow house where my grandma made me Cream of Wheat for breakfast on a chilly Autumn morning and gave my little brother Billy a sip of her Sherry, sweet like candy.
The big yellow house where my grandma took me into the garden and taught me how to make miniature dolls out of brightly colored, pink and purple Holly Hocks and tooth picks.
The big yellow house with stories of ghosts living in the basement and coming up for a visit to cause a little mischief.
The big yellow house that becomes full of rooms I’ve never been in, when I revisit in my dreams as an adult.
The big yellow house that has a big red front porch now. I drive by to pick up my nephew Logan who lives down the street and I am remembering it from photos and memories intermingled with dreams.
The big yellow house. An embrace from my grandmother.