Last week, I drove down Sixth Street, and a wave of tremendously powerful memories washed over my mind. For a moment, I could almost hear my grandma’s voice from the kitchen window, calling us in for dinner. The image of my brother and parents sitting beside me at the table was extraordinarily vivid and calming. Back then, the only worry I had was whether I would agree with my brother on which game to play after dinner. It all seems so superficial and temporary now. Childhood tricks you into that – into thinking that traditions are permanent and that the feeling of excitement will never fade.

On each short drive to my grandparents’ house, I was filled with eagerness. I had always loved spending afternoons there. This house was filled with so much love and is at the center of so many memories: holidays, cookouts, sleepovers, bonfires. Outside, the sun would be shining, and there would have been just enough breeze to cool us off without ruining our plans of an outdoor dinner. My dad would drive and my mom would sit beside him in the passenger seat with a plate of cookies or snacks on her lap. In the back seat, my brother and I would be restless and eager to arrive at the house. After what felt like hours – but was really only five minutes – the car pulled into the driveway. My brother and I would pour out of the car and run up to the house where my grandma waited with the door open. She always embraced us warmly, and while she greeted our parents, we would take our shoes off and walk through the kitchen, with its blue walls and grey countertops. Walking past our pictures on the wall and drawings on the fridge, we would make our way into the living room, filled with newspapers and books on every surface, and finally out the back door.

Outside on the deck, my grandpa would already have the grill started. I would yell a greeting to him – I did not want to get close to the grill – and my nose filled with the smell of fresh cut grass, blooming lilacs, and the charcoal smoke. Underneath my bare feet, the wood of the deck was always warm from the sun heating it all day. As I jumped off the deck into the yard, the soft grass would be cool and refreshing, adding to our anticipation for the afternoon ahead of us. My brother and I would race to the garage to grab the plastic baseball and bat, always arguing about our selection. The green bat was long, skinny, and light, but it would be more difficult to hit the ball with. The orange bat was, by contrast, short, fat, and heavy, making it hard to swing but easy to make contact with the ball. Most often, we would finally decide on the orange bat; it was just plastic, after all.

As we would make our way back around the house, I could see my parents and grandparents sitting around the table on the deck. My grandma would have brought out snacks as appetizers, and she and my mom would sip on their glasses of wine as my dad and grandpa would drink from their cans of beer. After a short argument, my brother and I would always decide that I would be the home team and start by pitching the ball to him; it made perfect sense (because I was the oldest). We always used our normal bases: the tree stump as the pitcher’s mound, the post of the clothesline as home plate, the edge of the fence as first, the flowerpot in the mulch as second, and the corner of the deck as third. We would play that way for a while, taking turns pitching and hitting while keeping our disagreements quiet because we were well aware that if our parents heard us, we would be in trouble.

When we would finally tire out, we were always out of breath, smiles plastered on our faces. Our feet were covered in grass and we smelled like “dirty outside kid,” as our mom liked to call it. Luckily, as soon as we decided to stop playing – which was always conveniently when I was winning our game – our grandpa would announce that the burgers were ready, and that it was time to eat. Before making our plates, my brother and I would again run around the perimeter of the house, out to the garage to put the baseball and bat away, and again run back to join the rest of our family. I would sit at the table on the deck, worn out from our baseball game, and take long drinks of the lemonade my grandma had poured for me. My mom would help me make my plate: a cheeseburger, fries, carrots, and mixed fruit. Together, we would fold our hands and pray before we ate, the food as good as it always was.

Every time we were there for dinner, we would sit outside until the sun began to set and the mosquitoes started to bite. My brother and I were always much too exhausted to get up and try to play again, so we would sit and listen to our parents and grandparents talk. Then, because our dad asked us, we would clear the table and bring the dishes inside to the kitchen. My grandpa would quickly clean the grill while my dad did the dishes, and my brother and I would help to dry them so that my mom and grandma could put them away. When everything was cleaned up, we would slowly make our way to the front door, where we entered earlier that day, when the air buzzed with an excited energy and the opportunities of the day brought a sparkle to our eyes. I always gave my grandma and grandpa a big hug and watched my brother follow suit. My parents would say their goodbyes as well, and much too quickly we would walk out the door. With a full stomach and a happy heart, I would climb back into the car, already dreaming about what adventure the next visit could hold.

I did not know it then, but these moments in my childhood would shape me. Small, consistent traditions would become such an important part of who I am and how I view my family. These moments were filled with love and safety – feelings that I yearn to be wrapped in eternally. But, in reality, it is impossible to truly live in the past: as much as one wishes to go back to certain memories, time only moves forward. I can only hope to give that feeling to my own children, so that they may feel just a sliver of the tenderness that I did as a child when I spent afternoons with my family at my grandma’s house.