This was the house my father and his twelve brothers and sisters grew up in.
Every time we went there, I remember driving up and the first thing I saw was a medium sized dead tree with a rickety tire swing hanging from one of the larger tree limbs.
But not all of us live under the same roof as them. The story of how this happened is long and deeply personal, but put simply, I had a single mother who worked long shifts during my childhood as a registered nurse and often needed extra help in taking care of me.
Eventually, my grandparents began taking care of me full-time and became my legal guardians.
When I was younger, I used to always go to my grandparents house. They were very hardworking, caring, and strict and the way their house felt reflected their personalities.
Even though they haven't lived in their old house in a while, I will always remember it. The house I will forever have embedded in my mind was located in the rural town of Bovina, Texas.
The couches were a dark maroon color and the center table was glass with metal legs that were painted gold.
The carpet was brown and the mixture of the walls, the furniture, and the carpet made the room pretty dark and a little chilly.
On the way to the kitchen, you pass through a narrow hall.
The walls going through the hall were littered with pictures of my dad and his brothers and sisters, some of the grandchildren, and again more religious items.