i’m sitting in the den.  the only light in the room comes from my laptop and the lamp that stands next to NANI’s couch.  she leans into the light as she spreads out her paper – the LA TIMES, the NEW YORK TIMES, she reads it all, every day, cover to cover.  and catalogues, and fundraising brochures and mailers.  every day, cover to cover.  it’s a lamp with two bulbs but she only has one bulb turned on.  the walls of the room are a deep red – not candy-apple red or fire engine red but a dark and musty red that holds the heat in – the heat from the thermostat that is turned up to 85 degrees.  i know because i checked.  and its raining outside.

NANI and EDDIE’s house is made out of wood both inside and out.  there are beams and paneling that connect rooms and reach around corners.  there are closets and cabinets built into every wall and hiding behind doors.  every floor is covered in once-elegant carpet – in the den its black with large red and blue and green flowers.  i remember when it was first put down, thick and brilo-y.  now it’s worn where NANI’s feet rest off the side of her couch and in front of the chair where EDDIE always sat.

this house has always been more than just a structure.  more than just walls and windows and wood and rugs.  every corner has a story, a memory, a meaning.  every pillow, every picture frame, every dusty book, every over-flowing box – i hear the laughter, the tears, the worry and the reflection as i walk by.  this place is like a treasure map – a twisting and winding journey through my life, my mom’s, my family’s.

if you’re lucky i’ll begin to share stories because the more time i sit in this den with deep red walls, in the bedroom with pink and white roses running up the blue and white stripes of the wall paper, in the kitchen with NANI FANNY’s recipes jotted down on scratch paper and framed above the stove, in the front bedroom where i once slept in a twin bed and now tonight will sleep again, i’m reminded of how fantastical some of the memories are.  and how important they are to the life that i live today.

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between the ages of 1 and 7 i spent most friday nights, or at least most friday nights that i can remember, sleeping at NANI and EDDIE’s house.  EDDIE comes to pick me up on his way home from work.  i wait on the front steps in my lanz nightgown with a white cardigan and white socks with ruffles.  as we drive across town EDDIE sings UCLA fight songs and searches for big band music on the radio.  as i run up the front stone walk, NANI sensing my arrival scoots OLIVER, the “viscous” dog, to the backyard and the front door flys open.  she’s been waiting to embrace me with her impossibly soft arms, wrapped warmly in a terrycloth bathrobe and her wonderful NANI smell.

i slip off my shoes and tear off my sweater as i clim up the long, hand-carved wooden bench in front of NANI and EDDIE’s high bed.  i plop myself down in my spot – the space between their two wedge pillows.  the tv is always on, relaying stories of the day’s bad news.  and i wait, not flipping channels, for NANI to come in with dinner and for EDDIE to come in in his pajamas.  together we eat, on the bed, NANI and EDDIE balancing fine china on their laps, me balancing fine china on a tray on my lap.  chopped salad and spaghetti and ice cream with chocolate chunks and fresh raspberries for dessert.  then the lights go off and the tv stays on and i curl up between the two of them, the blue light from 20/20 flickers in front of my closed eyelids.