I read somewhere recently that grief tends to reintroduce itself to us at the same times each year. Even if we don’t remember how it started or where it stems from, our bodies carry those memories and present grief to us again.
This summer, grief didn’t just resurface on the emotional plane. I was also physically invited to sit in the space that symbolized the grief of a year ago and five years ago: the loss of childhood, embodied in the loss of my childhood home.
Five years ago, I graduated high school and moved to college. I said goodbye to the pattern of life I’d always known. One year ago, I graduated college and helped move all of my family’s belongings out of the house. This summer, the house was sold.
Before my parents officially closed, my brother and I went back to the house to move the very last items we planned to take: a couch and armchair set and the grill. A tedious trip for a Sunday afternoon, but one I’m glad we made. I walked through the emptiness of the house and remembered the fullness: the messiness, the joy and hurt and growth and pain and laughter and tears and sleeplessness and love.
It’s funny how being in a particular place brings back memories you never would have thought of.
I circled the backyard and was transported to childhood. There was a hollow stump in the back of the yard (the remains of which are pictured on the cover of this post). My siblings and I used to fill it with wet leaves and mud. The rainwater would collect there, making a sloppy sort of stew that we would mix and mash with sticks we found in the yard. We dared each other to taste it, but no one ever did. We threatened to feed it to intruders or villains, though no one ever showed up (we presume the stew stench scared them away).
I miss those endless days when we were allowed to let our imaginations run wild, together. We didn’t have a sledding hill anywhere nearby, so we’d pack snow onto the steps leading to the deck and take turns sledding down them, screaming as we went. We’d repack the snow each time, sliding and screaming until our cheeks turned pink and snow found its way inside our gloves. Then we’d head inside, knocking our wet boots off at the door. Lori, our dear caretaker, would make us hot cocoa, mini marshmallows swimming on top, and we’d feel warm again.
Walking around to the front of the house and back inside with my brother was a collision of memories. The two of us spent hours playing H-O-R-S-E or P-I-G (depending on how much time we had) on the driveway, shooting hoops until our arms got sore. A lot of the time, I would end the game in frustration when Luke made up or enforced some stupid rule (I’m sure it was mostly fair), or because the basketball had hit me in the face, which happened from time to time.
Eventually we switched to a softer ball and played P-I-G with the basement mini hoop. We decided every trick shot had to be made the exact same way in order to count. After a while, I mastered my favorite: bouncing the ball off the bookshelf and into the hoop. Turns out, if you master a trick shot, it doesn’t matter that your brother is generally more athletic than you. If he can’t make it, you’re going to win.
And one day, P-I-G turned into ping pong. The table and paddles are still in the basement. I hope the new family enjoys it.
Making my way upstairs, my childhood bedroom, the room I’ve slept the most nights in throughout my life, felt so empty. For as long as I can remember, it had been packed with things. From piles of stuffed animals, to Polly Pocket pool party extravaganza, to clothes and crafts covering the floor, to notes from teammates during my years running cross country, letters from theatre friends, pictures, and an unimaginable number of mementos and knickknacks. Memories colliding into each other.
I remember Kate and me quietly playing with our stuffed animals when we were supposed to be asleep. I remember lying on the floor for hours with a good book, transported to different times and planets. I remember making origami tulips, dancing to Taylor Swift, and crying through heartbreak in high school.
I learned loneliness, despair, belonging, and joy in that room.
Before I left, I signed my sisters’ names and mine in the closet. A farewell.
With my mind swimming with resurfaced memories—these and many more—my brother shut the garage door, and we pulled out of the driveway.
I may feel hints of grief each summer. I hope gratitude returns with it.
Madeline Witvliet (’25) graduated from Calvin with a degree in English. She can be found in coffee shops in Eastown, exploring Michigan’s state parks, or singing with Calvin’s Alumni Choir. Madeline enjoys spending time outdoors, crafting, and cooking Mediterranean-inspired meals.
