If I could, only for a mere second, go to that place that no longer stands as it once stood, as it should. A place that exists in my mind, where only memories prevail: my grandparents' home. Even if there still is the same old oak door that will always await with a warm greeting, which sounds like the hinges that need some oiling, those doors will never be able to lead me to the place I long for.

It stands as it did then. A house on top of a tiny hill which could be seen even if you were at the end of the street, for it is hard to ignore its dark red bricks and tremendous glooming windows, which revealed only the charade of the rooms my heart had witnessed like no other.

And yet as it stands, I see for what it truly is, just a visage. The furniture hasn’t moved an inch and the bookshelves still hold the same tomes and tourist guide books about all the parts of the world that my grandparents had ventured to. Poem after poem books fitted next to one another, their closest friend a sheer dust blanket, that guarded them all. The cupboards still house the same cutlery and crystal flutes we used to dine out of every Christmas, yet there no longer is the distinct aroma of my grandma's mushroom soup that I praised.

And even if not a finger was lifted to change this place I used to call mine, it was the ones that spent their summer days in these walls, that seemed to outgrow the games they used to play and laugh all day long.

It is never a shelf or a mirror, a desk or dining table that build the essence of a space. It was us that made the place ask for nostalgia, we built it from the ground up – it is ours. Every piece of its magic was built by our hands. Still the same old chess set makes my curiosity perk up, because no matter how I moved and placed the pieces, my king seemed to always be the one that fell against my cousin's almighty bishop. Or the warmth that my heart feels when I sit down on the same couch, where I would lounge in my summer days, feeling the sun that shone from those wide windows.

It still feels like my sister and cousins are right behind me, hot on my heels. My grandmother or grandfather, depending on who was in the kitchen doing the essential duties of grandparents, stood on the top of the stairs, taking us all in with a smile on their faces. A safe haven for all of us.

Then, time.

Years go by, and we change. As we’ve changed, so did the house, my comfort, no longer filled with too many grandchildren and relatives. We all had grown into something new, had gone to build new places and left this place behind. And it can pull at one’s heart string, to think that no longer this home could be reached. With all of us in it, the air around us smelling of the mouthwatering mushroom soup that stood on top of the stovetop and the piano songs that my cousin played like a true pianist all seemed out of reach. To think that this all is just a place now in my mind.

Yet it doesn’t just live in my mind. It will always be in my mind, this place will stand as long as all of those present then will hold it close to their heart. As long as pictures and stories, as long as we live on, so will that home. Even if we have become new people, those memories will always stay the same sweet ones.