THANKFUL FOR PHILADELPHIA

Alaina Werge

8th Grade • Daniel Boone Elementary

I’ve been going to the same house in Philadelphia for Thanksgiving break every year since before I could remember.

It’s one of my favorite places on the planet — the smell of the musty rug sitting there in the same spot for years, the stories of the civil rights movement and the memories that speak from the reddish-brown bricks. The recollections of my grandpa cooking for a lot of people and my uncle going out and shopping in bulk. My grandma in her same apron in the kitchen, smiling as she leans over and tops the huge bowl of sweet potatoes with marshmallows, secretly letting us little ones sneak some. Don’t tell your parents, she’d say. You aren’t supposed to have dessert before dinner. Shhhh. I remember two-liter bottles of soda and the succulent turkey, the doorbell ringing and my cousins and I rushing to answer it, excited to see who would come next. Memories of real, genuine cheesesteaks, ice cream before dinner and new beginnings, the feeling of growing up and changing with the people you love the most.

Everything about that house is special to me. The way you can tell it hasn’t been redecorated since the ‘70s by the same striped wallpaper and green couch. The way the soap is shell-shaped, the way the tile on the bathroom floor looks like flowers if you stare at it for long enough. The way everything feels alive and full of light — almost as if the creator of all things good in the universe painted the house with invisible happiness. It gives me

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a feeling of warmth — as if love itself had been melted and poured into the air vents, as if it’s not only a feeling, but a tangible thing floating from room to room, so real you can almost reach up and touch it as it moves in a cloud above your head.

I love the feeling of twenty loved ones crowding a room together and all their laughter and voices and stories. I can close my eyes and tell who’s who based on the sound of the individual giggle. I love the feeling of happiness and joy — it’s like if you could only pause time and stay there in that one moment, nothing could ever go wrong.

I remember my six-year-old self nodding off and falling asleep on my Uncle Barry’s shoulder after the annual game of cards and a big piece of pumpkin pie. I faded away into contentment as he patted my head and my lullaby was the sound of laughter that filled the home. I remember wishing that I could just be there forever — no past, no future, just the beautiful, perfect now. We went to watch the old-fashioned Christmas light show at the old Macy’s store, which will forever be known as Wannamakers to native Philadelphians, much as Marshall Fields remains unchanged in the minds of Chicagoans. I was mesmerized, staring up at the giant images of plasma candy canes and snowmen dancing around on the screen. The images were so old-fashioned, not fancy like today’s graphics can be, but seeing the pride on the faces of parents sharing the experience of watching the same show they had watched as kids, with their own children, now made me realize how special this shared experience was for all those crowded around me.

People sang Christmas carols outside in the falling snow, and my family and I would walk past and discuss whether it might be too soon to be putting up ornaments. The cold would bite at

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our fingers and noses, but the warmth in our hearts was always enough to protect us from the chill in the air.

The death of my grandmother changed everyone and everything around me. Everything in the home suddenly had more value, more meaning, more memories. There are memories attached to the old, unused box of Jello in the cabinet that we planned on making together and the wheelchair that stays sitting there decaying in the basement that she used to get around towards the end, rusty and stiff. The house itself became more meaningful. Every surface glistens with an invisible coat of paint, a paint that is made of the tears that were shed and the comfort that was given. That table, where I would read to her. She was too weak to read for herself. I remember the spot on the couch where she always sat, the same coffee cup that she would drink out of with a straw. Parkinson’s weakened her muscles until she wasn’t even able to lift it to her mouth. And a year later, when she got pneumonia, her muscles weakened until she couldn’t breathe anymore.

Her memorial service was held in that house. Everyone came dressed in black. Somber. I remember as my ten-year-old self ran up the stairs, screaming. She shouldn’t have died. It’s so unfair. Why did she have to die? My cousin Ben ran up to me, scooping me into his arms, nuzzling the top of my head. It’s okay, love bug. It’s okay.

The house in Philadelphia will forever remain home to some of my most prized, emotional and joyful memories — and I know that I will always have a place to go back to. No matter who enters and exits the doors of my life, that house has become a home to me and will forever remain standing, tall and proud in my heart.

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Things change, and people do too, but together with my family, we can undergo changes and come out even stronger. Whenever I’m the only one standing still, when everyone around me seems to be moving as fast as they can, whenever I’m overwhelmed and in a river of emotions without a life vest, I think about my Philly home. No matter what happens, no matter how difficult and confusing things become, I’ll always have the moments and the memoires I can revisit in my mind and imagination, and that will always be more than enough.

I’ve been going to the same house in Philadelphia for Thanksgiving break every year since before I could remember. When I’m in this home, time stops, and I know that somehow, as long as I’m there, everything will always and forever be alright.

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