Grandma's House

“Grandma’s House”—It wasn’t just a house.

It was a sanctuary.

Tucked on the corner of an ordinary street,

But holy ground to me.

It smelled like cinnamon rolls and Ivory soap,

Like worn leather Bibles and hope.

Like something steady—

When the world outside wasn’t.

The floor creaked like it knew our footsteps,

Like it had memorized our laughter

And held it close

In case we forgot how to be joyful someday.

The couch had dents in just the right places

From years of bedtime stories,

Kleenex tucked in sleeves,

And hands folded in prayer that no one else saw.

Her house was a quiet kind of magic—

No glitter, no noise, just safety.

Just someone who saw you fully

Even when you didn’t say a word.

She was soft in a way that made you brave,

Strong in a way that never made a sound.

She didn’t ask the world to notice her—

But somehow, everything good came from her touch.

When the world was too sharp,

Her arms softened it.

When I doubted myself,

She believed loud enough for both of us.

Now her house sits still—

The chair by the window doesn’t rock anymore.

The kettle doesn’t hum like it used to.

But sometimes when I walk in,

I swear I can still feel her.

I can hear her humming.

Smell her Sunday roast.

Feel her hand on my back saying,

“It’s going to be okay, baby. You’re home.”

And maybe that’s the thing about grandmas—

They never truly leave.

They build homes in hearts,

And teach you how to return to them

Whenever the world gets too heavy.

So I carry her with me.

In the way I speak softly when someone’s tired,

In the way I pour love into food,

In the way I open the door wide

And say, “Come on in. You’re safe here.”

Because Grandma’s house wasn’t just a place.

It was a feeling.

And I’ll spend the rest of my life

Trying to give it away

The way she gave it to me.