Just last weekend my mom, stepfather, my five month old daughter, Francesca and I traveled to Arizona to visit my 92 year-old Grandma. Things I love about traveling to Arizona the most are seeing my family...and climbing Squaw Peak, which I don't get to do now that my brother and family have uprooted to Maryland.
Yet, my grandmother's house remains the same. One of the most constant things in my life since I was 10 years old. Walking in her home is like being home. A real feeling of home. Like a childhood walk back in time. I picked oranges of her trees, my Italian Papa make us homemade bread, fresh squeezed orange juice, and tons of other culinary goodies.
I have so many memories of my her house, like being 16 and forced to go there when a boy I fell so hard for was back at home waiting for me, playing mini golf at the arcade, the diving board at the pool, driving fast in the golfcart with my brother, and of course, when Papa passed away. I will always feel his presence when I walk through the house or when I relax on Grandma's patio.
The one thing I love most is the love that flows through the house. My Grandma is polite, educated, and well-spoken. She reads the paper every day and you will never ever catch her watching anything but baseball, the news, or Wheel of Fortune. She is also fiesty and opinionated at the same time. "babies should not be wrapped so tight, "She looks like she's in jail!" she tells me when I swaddle Francesca. Not to mention the sock in the arm she gave me when she saw Francesca's pierced ears,
"those are hurting her!"
"She's my baby I'll do what I want," I smile politely. There is more of me in her than just our matching blue eyes.
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