Here in this photo is my grandmother's old house. She's been the source of countless memories, some I remember and some I don't, and each one I recall with a smile on my face. Her home is where all our family flock to when it comes to reunions, hangouts, sleepovers; everything really. Something about her home makes us, my sisters, cousins, and I, feel incredibly safe. Whether it's the candy dish that sits atop her counter, waiting for our curious fingers to take what we please, or her kind smile and witty comments. We all recall the time she lived in an apartment in Tidewater Gardens. There was a YMCA park a few blocks away that we walked to, stopping to gather our friends. It was rundown and most of the equipment was rusty and hurt your palms, but we knew how to make every trip there fun. Across the street from my Nana's house, there was an open field where many hide-and-seek games were played, rigorous games of tag, and nighttime sky watches. Our friends knew her as well, often being invited inside for a glass of cold Kool-Aid or, after dinner, we all sat outside on the porch with dripping ice cream cones in the summer. She was this beacon of light in such a dark place. Recently, Tidewater Gardens was demolished to make room for a bigger and better apartment complex. While I can't pass down the house she lived in, I can tell my children stories about the adventures I had there and I only hope my children do the same and tell their friends how brave I was to do what me, my sisters, and my cousins did.

– A

Relationship:  Grandchild of im/migrant Grandchild of im/migrant