Walking into my grandmother's house for the first time since she died really shook me up. It wasn't that it looked different; as a matter of fact it looked exactly the same. It looked as if it had been purposely preserved just the way she left it. But something was wrong, something was missing. Something in the air just wasn't right. That house was hers. It was a part of her; just like she was a part of it. The house didn't seem as cozy and comforting as it always had before. Weird as it may seem, the house itself and everything in it seemed unhappy.

Then I began to look around the kitchen. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. Both my grandparents were very stubborn people. They fought all the time. Whenever they started, we'd all back away trying not to get in the way of their "friendly fire." I remembered one day in particular, two weeks before she died.They were fighting over nothing and my grandfather raised his hand to make a point, as did my grandmother. Their hands collided and ended up knocking over Grandfather's coffee cup. It fell underneath the stove, ending the fight, but starting another one about whose fault it was and who was going to pick up the cup. The broken cup was still underneath the stove.

I remember their arguing just like it was yesterday. It was all in good fun. Everything about them was fun. I miss it. I miss her. n