Her home is filled with everything from the one before. And what she’s kept from my grandmother’s. Memories and stories in every room and all directions. The smaller-than-a-loveseat sofa where I curled up and slept on weekend afternoons while my dad, in a nearby chair watched football or golf on the small television. The refilled and recovered down comforter that still adds a layer of warmth to my bed each night when she turns the thermostat down. The Steinway whose Ivory keys are worn and slightly concave, where I spent thirty minutes a day practicing without enthusiasm until the instructor kindly informed my mother there was no hope. My parents’ wedding china, the cobalt faded, on which we still eat each night. The pink towels that used to seem large and be plush and hung in the bathroom my sister and I shared when we were small. A large, formal portrait of my grandmother. My father’s books. My great grandmother’s etched crystal glasses. The rug that was my grandmother’s, then my sister’s, that now covers part of the floor in the room where my mother spends most of her time. Throw pillows with intricate needlework made by my uncle’s mother-in-law. Drawers full of black-and-white phots of three generations back and files of newspaper clippings and letters written long ago. Stories and memories all around.