Memory and Loss

For my birthday this year, we went to Carmel. It's a place that is very near and dear to me – my grandparents lived there throughout my childhood, and we'd make the two-and-a-half-hour drive down from my hometown every month or so. I can still feel the familiar rhythm of those Friday nights: getting caught in San Jose traffic, pretending to be asleep so my dad would carry me inside, then waking up early Saturday morning to that breathtaking view of Point Lobos and the Pacific Ocean.

Many a tea party was had on this deck.

I would immediately turn on the TV because my grandparents had cable and we didn't. I grew up exclusively on PBS watching things like “Reading Rainbow” while all my friends watched “Rocket Power” on Nickelodeon.

The morning would unfold like a well-rehearsed dance: my grandpa sitting at the dining room table, methodically putting on his dorky New Balance shoes (which are somehow now fashionable), getting reading to walk the dogs, while my grandma – always the last to emerge, perfectly coiffed with curled hair and makeup – would fill the kitchen with jazz music. My dad would make his ritual run to the bagel shop, returning with their famous bagel wraps and my special salt bagel, the closest thing to a pretzel I could get.

I didn't realize then how unbelievably lucky I was that Carmel was my second home. Being there this January with my own son should have been a full-circle moment, but instead, it was bittersweet. I've always been sentimental – the type who mourns when restaurants close, feeling like the memories housed within somehow fade into the ether. These feelings have been especially raw lately, watching news of the LA fires and thinking about all the memories people have lost. I can't imagine losing a child's school or a beloved home to flames.

My grandpa passed away when I was in middle school, but my grandmother lived until I was 24. She was 91, did regular exercise and balance classes, probably weighed less than 100 pounds, and ate impeccably healthy—though she always kept coffee ice cream in the freezer, much to my delight. She seemed immortal to me, which made her passing, though she lived a full life, feel unexpected.

What I truly wasn't prepared for was my parents selling the house barely a month after she died. Eight years later, I still haven't fully processed it. I had always imagined bringing my children there, continuing the legacy for generations. At 24, I wasn't consulted in the decision – though I doubt age would have mattered – and while there were rational reasons for the sale, my emotional brain still weeps. Sometimes literally, in the middle of the night.

The house has changed hands since 2016. Someone stripped it to the studs, added a second floor, and transformed it into a much larger home, worth over 3x what it sold for. My husband sweetly talks about buying it back someday, but it's hardly the same house. I fantasize about knocking on the door, trying to explain to the current owners why this place matters so much, though I know I never will.

I often think of Taylor Swift's song "Marjorie," about her grandmother: "What died didn’t stay dead, you're alive in my head."

That's how I feel about my grandma, about that house, about memories in general. They live on in our minds, even as the physical places change or disappear. Being in Carmel now will always hurt a little. My son won't run down that hallway on Saturday mornings, won't wake up to that view of Point Lobos, won't know the exact spot where his great-grandmother used to sit and eat her breakfast. The house exists now only in my memory, and some nights, that doesn't feel like enough.