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The key on my keychain securely fits into the lock, allowing me to easily twist the handle open with a faint creek as I make my way inside.
It’s just like I remember it.
Except now, it’s empty.
But if Gramps taught me one thing, nothing makes a house a home like the memories you spend there. And that—thatcan never be taken.
I have to push aside the feeling of sadness that engulfs me as my legs guide me down the hallways. I can’t help but look up at the photos that line the walls. I’m not surprised my parents have left these for last.
I place my hand overtop of a few dusted images set in their frames, smiling softly as I see Gramps throughout all decades of his life—knowing just how much he lived every moment to the fullest.
There’s not much else left for me to go through in this place. My family has cleared it out, leaving little for me besides a few knick-knacks and miscellaneous decor items throughout the room.
It doesn't matter though. I don’t want a single thing—I came here with one motivator in mind. To go right back to the one place I know my parents have left untouched.
Gramps’ sports room. Or, dare I say, Gramps’ Crawfield room.
I make my way down the hall and to the right, peering through the sliver in the door before I have to brace myself to walk inside.
This is the room of my childhood.
This is my safe space.
I push open the door, instantly greeted by the familiar aroma of Gramps’ cologne, mixed with the lingering scent of wood, a gentle reminder of the vacancy that has settled into this once-bustling room.
It’s all too overwhelming, and before I know it, I’ve fallen onto Gramps' couch. Right back into my seat. I sink in the sameway I always used to, almost as if this couch had been made just for me. Growing up, I was convinced that Gramps had the comfiest couch in the world.
I was right.
My head falls back into the cushion, and for the first time, it feels as though I’m really seeing this room for all of its glory.
The various Crawfield uniforms over the years. The memorabilia. The footballs are carefully tucked into protective cases. And the TV. The TV projected it all.
Before I know it, I’m leaning across the couch, reaching for the remote and flicking it on.
I insisted to Gramps that I’d buy him a brand-spanking new TV. The biggest he’d ever seen in his life. But he was never one to be overtly extravagant. He said if it’s not broken, don’t fix it. Therefore, the TV he bought in the early 2000s lives to see another day.
And like a jab to the stomach, the first channel that comes on is right where it was left off: a football match.
Mom and Dad said Gramps passed peacefully in his home—and now, sitting here, I can’t help but wonder if this was where his peace was.
Suddenly, the air in here feels tighter. It’s so hard to breathe. So hard knowing that for the first time in my life, I’m here alone. Gramps isn’t going to bound into the room with an arm full of snacks and eyes that light up my own.
He’s gone.
It’s a reality that is as hard to swallow as it is to live.
Before I know it, a single tear falls down my cheek, and that’s when I speak. My voice is a whisper, but I know he hears it. “I miss you, Gramps,” I admit wholeheartedly. “I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do.”
The tears are flowing down my cheeks at this point, prompting me to lift my arms up to wipe them away as my sobsescape my mouth quietly. I keep repeating those six words over and over.
Tell me what to do, Gramps.
Beams of sunlight start to burst through the window that lines the back wall of the room, cascading rays of light over my eyes. I have to squeeze them shut, eventually opting to move from where I’m seated.
I shift my weight, sniffling as I work my way down the couch and find refuge on Gramps' side.
I’ve never sat on this end of the couch before, and now that I am, I guess I understand why Gramps always called me sunshine.
