Yesterday my family and I attended a BBQ not far from the beach house my grandparents owned when I was a child. On a whim, we drove a little bit out of the way to see the old house.
I was so surprised to see it, and all of the changes that had taken place there over the years. Gone is the wraparound screened-in porch, there’s a large second story where there was once none. It’s yellow. It’s all wrong.
I snapped a picture and we drive away. Marcus asked me what was wrong, and I burst into tears. Everything. Everything was wrong. The house wasn’t right. My grandparents, both older now and in declining health, aren’t right. The passing of time felt wrong. Nothing was right.
My parents, divorced now but both with hundreds, thousands, of memories of the house at Breezy Point were quick not reminisce, pointing out all the wonderful things that happened there. Those should be the focus. They’re right.
But I still look at this picture and everything seems wrong. Object 27 is this house…but moreso, it’s the lifetime of family memories that took place in this house. And that isn’t wrong. It was, it is, so very right.