These might not seem like the biggest or most impactful decisions, but they make a major difference to me. Just seeing those little changes— the little differences that set this part of my life apart from what was behind it— is significant.
As I make my way down the sidewalk toward the mailbox, a car pulls up in front of my house, and I see something else that is a fairly new addition to my life. A bit older than the porch, perhaps, but not by a whole lot.
“Dean!” I call as the driver's door opens, a genuine grin on my face.
“Hey, cousin,” he says, climbing out and returning my grin with one of his own. “How are you doing?”
“I feel like I might melt and become one with my sidewalk. And you?” I ask.
We meet at the mailbox, and he gathers me into a tight hug. Dean is stronger than he realizes sometimes, and it often feels like there's a fine line between a hug that's a sign of affection and a bear hug that's a form of physical restraint. Considering his line of work, he may experience that fine line, too.
“It definitely got hot early this year,” Dean says, stepping back from me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, going to the mailbox and pulling out the stack of envelopes and circulars.
“You said if I had time in between jobs and ever found myself up around this area, I should come by,” he shrugs. “So, here I am. I hope it's not a bad time.”
“Not at all,” I tell him. “I'm really glad to see you. Are you going to be able to stay awhile?”
“A few days,” he says. “I grabbed a room at the hotel in town, and they said they have plenty of availability so I can kind of come and go.”
“You are not staying in a hotel,” I frown. “You're going to stay right here with me.”
“You sure you have the space?” he asks.
I turn around and sweep my hand through the air, putting the house on display. “I live alone, Dean.”
He laughs. "Alright. Fair enough. I can call and cancel my reservation."
"Good. Come on inside."
Two military-issue duffel bags come out of the trunk, and we head for the front door.
"Sam and you still aren't living together?" he raises an eyebrow. “I really don’t want to intrude…”
I shake my head. "It’s fine, Dean. And no, not officially. But we spend most of our time together, so it's kind of hard to tell. He's knee-deep in paperwork today, but he'll be over in a while."
I step up on the porch, and a thought hits me. "You know, it would be silly for you to stay in a hotel when visiting me no matter where I lived, but especially here."
"Why?" he asks, adjusting his bag on his shoulder and looking at me questioningly.
"Because this is your grandparents' house too. Welcome home."
Chapter Two
Dean lets out a breath and looks around. "Wow. I didn't think about that. But I guess you're right. It is.”
I nod. “Absolutely. Let me show you around.” I gesture at the porch. “That's not original. Sam just added it on a few weeks ago. I suddenly felt the need for a porch.”
“It's a good porch,” Dean nods.
I smile and open the door. "That's the only thing I've really changed. I mean, other than paint and stuff. The house itself is the same way it was when they lived here." It suddenly occurs to me that just like the house represents change to me, it gives a glimpse into even more change for Dean. "I have pictures of it from back then, and even from before I was born. Would you want to see them?"
Dean looks at me right in the eyes for a few seconds. He's thinking about it. I can see the hesitation in that look. It's the same kind of hesitation I felt before opening the room up in the attic. I decide not to mention that particular renovation to him. Not yet. After all, the room wasn't sealed up when I was young. It was open just like it is now. Until he's ready to confront it, Dean doesn't need to face all the bitterness and pain of his father's legacy.
"Sure," he says.
I nod, smiling. "I'll get them out later. Let me show you the house." We step inside, and I wave my hands around the space.
“This is the living room. Over there is where we always had the Christmas tree, and everybody hung out. When I was little, there was this big ugly brown and green recliner in that corner. It's where Grandpa always sat. It was really funny because he was one of the most vibrant and energetic people I've ever known. He was always up doing something, getting his hands into things. But come evening, he sat down in that recliner and was all of a sudden a shriveled-up old man. He would sit there and act like he couldn't move and sometimes would nap with his mouth open.”
“Huh,” Dean notes. “I always wondered where I got that.”
“Well, if Sam is to be believed, it's a family trait,” I say.
Dean laughs, and we move further into the house. For the next hour, we roam through the rooms as I tell him about the people who used to occupy them. I pull out all the stories about my grandparents that I usually keep tucked in the back of my mind. I try to remember funny things that they used to say or the way my grandmother smelled. Our grandmother.
Thinking of it that way brings a twinge of
