Moving Through Rooms.

My Grandpa (well, my husband's) but he is mine too, passed away last Sunday. His funeral was yesterday. It was a celebration of his life and many memories were shared. The night he passed away my husband and I sat in the dark with "hey, remember . . ." We have lived in their and now our house for 5 years now and that night in the dark my husband would show me where there was a newspaper clipping of him, a certain picture, or gadget of Grandpa's. We can move through rooms and know what furniture piece, like their full (he was rather tall) bed used to stand. We have changed (I wouldn't say exactly updated, the roof yes, but most things no) rooms. When he died I went through each room to see what was the same, what still remained, existed from them, our Grandparents. I was comforted by much. Pink and gold speckled bathroom floor. Check. Grey and white 50's kitchen counter top (I have seen the matching table at antique stores). Check. Burn mark on linoleum kitchen floor. Check. When someone is gone, it makes you want to grab onto those extensions of them even more. I stand where Grandma washed dishes and I too, use the clothesline where Grandma would hang the wash to dry. I see Grandpa in an oil stain in the garage. An oil stain from years of fixing, coaxing engines into power. As family members looked through treasures lost, we came across pictures of the house. It had been snowing and Grandma was standing on the back porch. The next picture was her standing in the doorway of the front mud room porch. This reminds me of Harold, who probably said, okay now let's get one of you in the back. Alright, how about the front. We have taken those exact pictures with snow but without grandma. I need a copy of those, that's for sure.