Bubbe’s house was my happy place

SO many people have skeletons in their closets. My Bubbe, though? She had memories in hers.

We lived in Silver Spring, Maryland, and I always treasured our trips to Bubbe’s house in Charleston, South Carolina. My family would pile into our blue minivan with our suitcases stuffed in the back and all the afterthought-items shoved into the crevices between the seats. The ten-plus hours were filled with Shlock Rock and Miami Boys Choir and more rounds of the license-plate game than I care to admit.

But it was all worth it for that moment when we would pull up to Bubbe’s house. Rolling down the windows, we would wave and cheer excitedly as our beautiful matriarch stood waiting in her driveway.

I would rush out of the car and jump into Bubbe’s arms for a hug that felt like she never wanted to let me go. Hand in hand, we’d walk into the house and sit around her kitchen table laden with all sorts of yummy treats. As the grownups talked, I’d head to Bubbe’s bedroom to drop off my bags. We were roommates, you see. Ever since I was a little girl, I had the privilege of sharing my Bubbe’s bedroom when we visited. This was our special time together, lying awake late into the night, whispering secrets and laughing at the silliest things. I always fell asleep smiling and feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.

Bubbe’s house was my happy place.