“So, Mama,” my daughter asked from the pantry, her voice barely audible over the rustling of snacks, “what would you save in a fire?” Before I could give my usual answer—“My priority would be getting everyone out safely”—she interrupted my thoughts with a question that felt a little deeper. “I mean, if we’re all out, is there anything you’d want to save?”
I paused, letting the question settle in the air. It wasn’t about the things you might expect—it was about the little treasures, the ones that hold memories and the ones that feel like pieces of our story. My daughter had often overheard me ask the same question as I sat with others, listening to the stories behind their family heirlooms. But now, it was my turn to answer, which gave me pause. I’d always been the one asking, never the one questioned.
It didn’t take long for the answer to come to mind. The commissioned portrait of my Mimi’s house. That is what I would save. More than just a painting, it is a piece of my story, an heirloom I could never let go of. It hangs above my desk, quietly holding its place in the tapestry of my life.
The House That Shaped My Story
Tucked away at the corner of a quiet street in a town that always feels like home, there’s a place I hold dear—a spot so familiar I could find my way there with my eyes closed. Even without seeing a thing, I know I can navigate to it, guided by the whispers of nostalgia and its deep, comforting presence in my heart.
The barking of two watchful Labradors once led me past the weathered moss-green house on the corner while the lively chatter and hum of traffic from the local high school pulled me further down the road. On Friday nights, the air would grow thick with cheers from the home team, echoing through the streets like a familiar, unspoken rhythm.
But it was always the sound at the end of the street that stopped me, letting me know I had arrived. The gentle sway of the hummingbird feeder in the warm southern breeze would send tiny creatures flitting and fluttering, dancing in midair as they sought their next sip of sweetness. The only thing missing from this scene is my beloved Mimi, standing at the back door, ready to greet me.
Every time I come to town, I slow down as I pass by, pausing to take it all in—the charming ranch-style home, the red-rust back porch, the hummingbird feeder swaying gently in the summer breeze. The scene is almost the same, except for Mimi’s quiet absence. She’s no longer waiting at the door, yet somehow, she’s still there, woven into every familiar detail.
More Than Bricks: A Place of My Memory
This house holds most of my childhood memories. Its front porch stretches out, supported by white pillars and decorated with two white rocking chairs. The memories live within its walls and along the path that connects my great-grandmother’s and great-aunt’s homes, each step a quiet piece of my past.
I spent summers dashing back and forth between those houses, carving a trail into the red Alabama clay, my footprints mingling with the scents of wildflowers, freshly cut grass, cool earth, and thorny weeds that have surely reclaimed the path my tiny feet once knew. Those days were full of carefree exploration, barefoot adventures, and the simple sweetness of childhood—memories I still return to often.
But my favorite spot in that house wasn’t the porch or the yard. It was just behind the front door—the room that inspires my writing—Mimi’s pretty room.
The Pretty Room
Mimi’s pretty room was off-limits to anyone under a certain age. It held all her most cherished trinkets—from music boxes and Precious Moments figurines to delicate crystal and a French Victorian-style rotary dial phone I longed to get my sticky toddler hands on. When we were young, a gate guarded the room, and my cousins and I would linger outside it, poking our fingers through the slots, desperate to touch anything within reach.
As we grew older, Mimi began to walk us through all her pretties, sharing the stories behind each item—the angel figurine given to her by a neighbor, the music box my uncle had bought, and the porcelain bank my mother gave her to mark the end of my grandmother’s chemo treatments. Each piece held deep meaning, not because of what it was, but because of who had given it to her and the story it carried.
After her passing, my uncle gathered the family inside that pretty room, allowing us to choose one or two of her treasures for ourselves. As all the aunts, uncles, and cousins exchanged quiet glances, I knew we all felt the same—it was a sacred moment, and we wanted to choose with care. We picked our treasures one by one, knowing we were saying goodbye—not just to her pretties, but to the house that had held so much of our history.
The Commissioned Watercolor
For years, I drove past that house, slowing down just enough to pretend I was coming back for a visit. I imagined I could still hear the wind moving the chimes or the rocking chairs swaying gently in the breeze. If I drove slow enough, I liked to think I could even catch a glimpse of Mimi peeking through the curtains of the back door, eagerly awaiting our visits.
A few years ago, I felt the need to keep her home close—to hold onto the place that shaped so much of my heart. I had admired artist Jonalyn Fincher’s work for years, and when I discovered she could create a custom portrait of Mimi’s house, I didn’t hesitate. Watching that beloved place come to life through her brush excited me. Jonalyn did not disappoint. The watercolor captures every delicate detail of the house forever imprinted on my heart, each brushstroke bringing to life the essence of a place I hold so dear.
Every time I look at that painting, I remember that the things we cherish—whether they’re physical objects or the memories attached to them—hold a quiet, lasting presence. That house, now just a whisper of the past, lives on in the strokes of Jonalyn’s brush, capturing not just the structure but the heart of a place that shaped my childhood. It’s a reminder that our love for the people and places we hold dear never vanishes, even as time progresses.
It weaves itself into the fabric of who we are, always present, always waiting to be remembered.
