Some time ago, I had a reflexive experience visiting my Grandparents’ house. It had been a while since the last time I went there. As a child, that was the place I liked best, days were calm and long, it felt like there was so much to explore and no time for boredom. My grandparents were a big part of my childhood, I would spend entire days in their house. They are gone now for a while but revisiting that place, I could feel their presence so vividly. I could see my Grandma in the roses in the backyard that she loved so much to take care, I could see my Grandpa in the shed where it was stored all the CDs he would listen to every afternoon. It was like the house had stored all the memories from that time.

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Revisiting that place felt like a walk to a past that was so far away, but yet so vivid in my life. The room where I used to sleep, the dresser, the paintings on the wall, all the furniture was still the same, as if the house had remained in a time capsule where time didn’t pass, yet, everything felt so different. As I walked through the corridor, it felt like the house had shrunk, it didn’t feel as big as it used to when I was little. The wood on the floor seemed fragile and the walls were a little cracked, as if the place was falling apart.

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On the ride home, I was still moved by that visit. Even though it felt nice reliving those memories, it left me with a feeling of strangeness. Ever since my grandparents were gone, once in a while I would remember about that place and the happy moments I had there as a child, but now, those memories seemed to be tainted by my visit there as a grown-up and all the new feelings I had. This made me wonder if going there had been a good choice. My childhood memories were no longer intact and safe, the house was still the same, but I had changed, as well as my perceptions.