The Last Good Memories

We didn’t know it was the good part.

I’ve spent a lot of time trying to remember the last time everything felt right. Not perfect—just whole. Safe. Familiar.

Some of my clearest memories live in the kitchen of my grandmother’s house—my dad’s mom. She had one of those old oil heaters in the corner. I can still feel the warmth of it on my gloves in the winter. We’d come in from the cold and press our hands close to thaw. The smell of dinner would already be floating through the house.

In the summer, we played hide and go seek—all of us, even the adults. We’d run through the yard, hiding behind trees and porches as the honeysuckles filled the air. That smell brings it all back faster than any photograph ever could.

And I can still see her sewing machine—set up in a quiet room, surrounded by dolls she had made dresses for. The whole space was filled with care. Each doll in its own outfit. Each stitch was part of a memory.

Those days felt full. Family gathered often. Laughter came easily. The house was white, simple, wrapped in something that felt like peace. I remember playing with my cousins. I remember thinking: this is what life is supposed to feel like.

On my mom’s side… the memories are blurrier. I remember Christmas dinner at my grandmother’s house, but it felt different. Her family was fun to a degree—but standoffish. Reserved. Something about it never felt entirely open or warm. I recall their furniture—white, stiff, covered in plastic. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, and I remember sweeping their back porch with a broom almost bigger than me. We lived in the basement next door at one time. I don’t remember a lot of closeness.

Sometimes I wonder if trauma has blurred the details. Blocked things out. Maybe there’s more than I know.

I was young when my mom’s father died. After that, things started to shift. The family fractured. The moving began. Slowly, what I thought was normal began to fall apart.

"You never know it’s the last good memory while you’re still living inside it."