It’s not really my house. It’s my grandmother’s house. It is our family’s house. Built by a grandpa I never got to meet. There is a window in the shower. The kitchen cupboard doors no longer sit square over the pots and pans behind them. You can only throw the deadbolt when the humidity is right. There will always, always be creepy-crawlies sneaking in the cracks at the first signs of spring. This house raised nine babies though. Into lawyers, police officers, nurses. Into moms and dads. Friends. Countless more grandchildren and great-grandchildren have polished the scarred floor with their pitter patter. Sometimes I think memories and love are what keep the roof up.