I’m sitting at the cluttered dining room table, sifting through old receipts, photos, and collectibles as the breeze brushes softly through the screen of the back door. It’s peaceful. Only the dining room table is a folding table brought up from the basement, and the chair I'm sitting in is part of a plastic patio set. It’s not how it used to be. Most of the furniture has been sold or is unidentifiable, covered in unclaimed estate sale items. Items that once meant a whole lot to my grandparents—or were simply products of an unhealthy shopping addiction. Nevertheless, these items symbolized something for me: a well-lived-in home, with owners who found value in tangible things. But even more, owners who found value in memories.

Maybe they don’t mean much now, but these items have an ability to bring us back to a certain time, place, or feeling. Like that Jamaican Me Crazy t-shirt from 2009, or the glittery bag my grandma bought from the gift shop at Universal Studios. Personally, I don’t find as much nostalgia in clothing items as my grandma does, but I do find it in specific places. And my grandparents' house is that place.

Chaotic Christmas Eves, Thanksgiving turkey with a side of political discourse, sleepovers and movie marathons, grandma making me watch Lovely Bones at age nine to teach me about the “stranger danger” concept, meeting new cousins for the first time, stealing candy from the candy drawer (I always avoided the black licorice though), recklessly playing with grandpa’s beloved train sets, finally sitting at the “adult table” during a family gathering, and watching everyone get a year older, and a year older, and a year older.

So yes, I understand the sentimental value in tangible things. But it’s different now. Especially now that grandpa is gone and grandma lives 800 miles west. And we’re still here, sifting through items, memories, and trying our best to transform this home of 25 years into a clean slate for the next owners to come along and make memories of their own. Onto the next chapter.