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It’s dial-up here – no cable modems and wireless routers, so my laptop and I sit in the living room, isolated from the world, left with only my thoughts as I listen to nothing. I know of few places outside my parents’ house that pure silence can be found. When I was younger, family would visit with a telescope – there are no city lights to disturb your view of the stars. They found Venus once, but I couldn’t see it – I was either looking in the wrong place or not seeing what I expected to see. I had a friend who said I lived in the darkness outside of town – a place where the lights don’t reach, people never lock their doors, and you know to slow down near the curve in the road so you don’t hit the neighbors' dog. He likes to stand in the middle of the road, wagging his tail as you roll down the window to shoo him away.

Though I remember the quiet outside growing up, the inside of the house has grown silent as well. My parents have aged and shuffle to bed earlier, and I watch lights turn off across the street or next door so neighbors can end painful days and seek the ease of unconsciousness at earlier and earlier hours. Gazing across the street at a pretty red-brick ranch, I remember walking through a neighbor’s yard on the way to school each day – years and years ago. A path had been worn through the yard from all of us who "cut through" as we trudged to and scampered home from school. I’d always stop to say hello on the way home – sometimes pause for some lemonade and to talk. They had ideas of what I should write about, what goals I could have, what qualities in myself I should seek to refine. But they were lovely and kind, and I enjoyed them. He’s gone now – I must have missed the funeral when I was away at school. And she drives to her mailbox rather than taking the short walk. Stooped over – the years of grief and pain pressing her shoulders down – aging far more than I’m comfortable witnessing.

I enter a guest room. My parents used to sleep here while I enjoyed the bigger bedroom. I liked time alone, they reasoned, and should have the most space. They kept it for me until last year – 8 years of a bedroom at home, always the same, a continuous comfort. I helped them paint and move furniture last year – covering the soft blue that eased my mind into daydreams with a darker shade. Moving boxes of books out of the closet and into storage – I’m not around to read them anymore. Taking down shelves that once housed my most prized possessions – 2 stuffed dogs, one from Grandma, the other from Grandpa; the memory box my mom got for graduation; my favorite Care Bears – a large TenderHeart Bear and 2 smaller brown bears with big red hearts on their tummies. I don’t remember what else sat on those shelves – there were 3 and they were long, so there had to have been several items. But only a few remain locked in memory. All were much loved once, but are now mostly forgotten.

There’s a couch where my parents’ bed used to be, a desk tucked neatly in a corner, and toys litter the floor for the baby. She’s so perfect – this little bundle of hope and possibilities that you can lift up and carry around. The lavender and baby powder scent of the lotion makes the dog sneeze – I favor lighter scents and the strong smell of baby must tickle her nose. We sing songs when she cries or fusses – they seem to comfort her, easing the silence into a somewhat disharmonious babble of words as we struggle to remember lyrics.

Down in the bottom of an itty bitty pool swam 3 little fishies and a momma fishie too. Swim, said the mama fishie, swim if you can, and they swam and they swam right over the dam…

She brings laughter, the beautiful little girl who loves to push buttons, smiles during songs and always tries to pet the puppy. My heart skipped at her toddling steps to me when I arrived.

"I know she’s been walking, Mom. I just haven’t seen it before. You’re so good at that, little one!"

Dad says she’s learning to talk and can proudly list the words he’s heard her say, his first grandchild. I’m glad she met her grandpa recently – that she was born after age and a heart attack had mellowed some of the anger and bitterness that used to surround him like the cloud of smoke from his cigarettes.

We painted the walls in the living room last year too. The smoke had stained them, turning them irreversibly yellow. You get used to things appearing to be a little dirty – the walls never looked quite right, but it was never so bad that you couldn’t ignore it. In a house filled mostly with love, support and pride, the stained walls didn’t merit much attention. But after they were painted, they were beautiful – the stain covered with bright new paint, tinted the lightest shade of blue, that my parents and I carefully applied. The baby won’t remember it being stained. While I’m sure she’ll remember other things that aren’t perfect, I hope she’ll remember her grandparents’ house as a sanctuary – a place of quiet, of pure love and extensive hope that she can do anything she wants, smile over every happiness, giggle with each new discovery of joy.

I remember my grandparents that way. One set, anyway - my mother's parents. The cuddles, the stories, the encouragement. Singing songs and playing games, building castles in my sandbox and playing dress up with Grandma’s sheer scarves and ruby lipstick. Pure comfort, pure love…

That house is gone now, as are they, my much beloved, very missed Grandma and Grandpa. I know loss, can recall the sharp pain and know the enduring agony. So I cherish my parents and my tiny niece, wish them sweet dreams as they head off to bed early, and tuck myself into bed long before I’m sleepy. They get up early, and I don’t want to miss any of the noise that tomorrow might bring.