I remember piling into the car early in the morning. My big brother and sister forcing me to sit in the middle seat. My dad always in the driver’s seat and my mom in the passenger’s. 

I remember my brother and sister fighting over the music, my mom would be learning her jazzercise routines in the front seat with headphones on, blocking out their shouts after she orders them to alternate choosing one song each. 

I remember driving for what felt like hours, but in reality was only about 40 minutes. Time passes slower from the middle seat, suffocated by two older siblings.

I remember the winding road and the way it made my stomach feel like it was turning all the way around and being squeezed with strong hands. I remember the cliffs to the left of us and thinking to myself every single time, “what would happen if those rocks were to slide down right now, flattening this car and all of the ones in front and behind us, just like pancakes.”

I remember arriving, finally, and pushing my way out of the car. I see the stone steps, live edged and jagged. I remember having learned to descend slowly through skinned knees on skinned knees. My grandpa, however, always standing at the bottom ready to scoop me back up. 

I remember the glass front door, not clear enough to make out the figures standing within. I remember just around the hedge, a small window near the ground for the dog to welcome us warmly with a wagging tail and a drooling tongue. He was the softest dog ever. White with brown spots. His name was Chief. 

I remember entering the house and how without fail, it always made my heart fill. I remember the clean smell; dial soap and moth balls. The couches my mother grew up sitting on. My aunts, my uncles, my cousins all gathered on them. I remember the little plastic butler figurines in the entry, standing just a head under mine -- their arms stretched holding a tray with a bowl of roses on top. Roses were my grandma’s favorite. I don’t remember there ever not being roses. To remember her. 

I remember the biggest TV ever, in the family room. My cousins and I would sit right in front and tilt our heads up to watch until our necks were sore. The Giants are playing and Kruk and Kuip are broadcasting. There was no room to move; the second you stood up, they would tell you to move out of the way or steal your spot. 

I remember all of the Giants memorabilia. Autographs, hats, jerseys, foul balls, World Series tickets. “To Dave”. Who is Dave? His name is Poppa. 

I remember every Christmas, every Thanksgiving, every graduation party, every family dinner. They are all here. 

I remember the grand piano, pictures of his grandchildren crowding the top. Pictures of his family lining every free wall, door, cabinet. He was so proud of every accomplishment in our lives. As little as losing a tooth. I don’t remember him missing a single soccer game. 

I remember my mom’s old bedroom, still filled with her old toys. My siblings, cousins, and I would spend hours playing. The bed seemed so small, even back then. Her comforter was white with lace. It felt old between my fingers, like if I rubbed it too hard it would flake off into a pile of dust. Her walls had posters of Journey circa the early 80’s. She told me the stories of when her and her friends went to the concert. I felt like I was there with her when she spoke. Her room a perfect relic, not touched since she’d left for college. That was my favorite part of the whole house. Or maybe the pool outside, and the view of the Moraga hills, and the rose bushes. I can’t decide. 

I don’t remember the features of rest of the hallway, but I do remember the intrigue it made me feel. The no kids zone. That’s where Poppa’s room was. We never went over there, mom said it would be rude and asked me how I would like it if the whole family rummaged my room. I told her I wouldn’t mind. She didn’t budge. It only made us all more curious.

I remember all of my fondest memories of growing up. My family felt so big and I always felt warm. Maybe it’s because Poppa didn’t like the cold and kept the thermostat up -- his perfect 85 degrees made the rest of us blister. I think it was mostly all of the love and joy we shared there. It was always easy. It was always comfortable. It was home. They were my home. 

I remember when he got sick. I remember my mom telling me he wasn’t going to get better. I remember wanting to go back to those Christmas mornings and those Thanksgiving nights. I remember wanting to feel that suffocatingly close again. Now we all felt so far apart.

I remember going to that house for my last time. It wasn’t the same house. So cold, so small. So quiet. I don’t remember the last time we were a family there. 

I remember how much he loved that house, and if there was one thing we needed to do for him, it was keep it in our family. It was my childhood. It was sibling’s childhoods. It was my cousin’s childhoods. It was our parents' childhoods. 

I remember when my mom told me we had to sell it. She couldn’t look at me in the eyes. 

I remember feeling like I was being drowned. A piece of me, my heart, my family, my home being ripped from me. Helpless. Angry. Confused. 

I remember wanting to scream, to argue, to fight. The lump in my throat battling my words, forcing them down. Once again, suffocated. 

I remember wishing I’d tried harder. I don’t remember when I gave up.

I remember my mom leaving every day to meet her brother and two sisters there. They were packing up his things -- the countless number of framed pictures he had of us all. Throwing away the things we would look at and play with. Bringing the rest back to my house. Seeing them in our guest room was so unnatural. They were out of place. 

I remember her trying to hide it at first. She was trying to protect me. Mom’s are so selfless -- especially mine. I know she was hurting even worse than me. 

I don’t remember when it all ended. I don’t remember when we hit resume and started living again. I don’t know how long it was. It all seems like a blur now. 

I don’t remember the last time we were all together like that. Everyone pushing their way onto the couch, trying to get a spot. Gazing up at that massive TV that really must not have been that big. 

I don’t remember when my childhood ended and I had to move on from those memories. 

I remember never wanting to forget them. I’ll always remember that.