The Memory House

We had supper last night with some old, dear friends in this old, dear house.
A house my family called home for fifteen years. Really, it was my parents' summer home; my sister and I were far away living our own lives yet when my first marriage ended and I knew I would leave Vancouver, this was the place, the only place, I wanted to go to. Where I needed to be.
The Memory House. Title of a 2008 Saltscapes article but also how I felt last night.
It started when I saw how tall the roses were growing, a foot over the railing. I realized the front of the house now resembles how this old house looked, several transformations ago, in its original state in the 1890's when the Seamans lived there, when the house was further down the hill and the lilacs (torn out for the new septic system) pressed up against the front porch.
So much has changed and yet nothing has changed. 
I thought I'd write about how I felt last night, how looking out at the yard, at the lupins and the shed, at the aged apple tree under which my dog Maggie is buried made me wonder if we should have kept the house, how being in the pantry kitchen made me miss the house so much I choked up, how seeing the vast and vibrant sunset over the harbour made me long for those summer nights again. But what I am going to say is how grateful I am that the house we loved is still the house we loved.
It is not an empty shell no one visits.
It is not renovated beyond recognition.
It is not rundown or neglected or abused.
Our memories are still there.