Two Visits

August, 2025

I pulled into the driveway. Stopped the truck. Took a deep breath.

Even though it had been almost ten years since I had been here, my brain somehow knew the way.

At one time, there were fences–boundaries along the road that delineated people’s homes. But now, they were worn, pieces missing. I adjusted my sense of how long it had been.

The Rainbows community was still the same– the streets, the protected patches of wetland, the retention pond with the No Fishing sign. The houses had been designed to match. But what once looked like siblings in matching outfits now looked like grown adults: same genes, different lives.

I climbed out of the truck and walked up to the house.

I vividly remember being late to work because I went with my parents to sign the paperwork that made it theirs. My parents chose this land and this specific house to finally establish roots–a place of permanence. They had never had a place that was theirs. They built this house. They were proud of this house. It was built for a family to grow into. For my sister to grow into. For me to grow into.

I lived in this house after high school. I started college here. Came home from ENC during the holidays. Brought my laundry and visited on the weekends when I started teaching. I introduced Amanda and Zain to my parents here.

I went from being part of the plan, to part of the conditions, to part of the past.

Standing in front of it now, I felt like a stranger.

Not knowing the code to the front door, I rang the doorbell.

January, 2026

I pull into the driveway, again.

This time it is like a dream where you recall places you have visited in other dreams. I know where I am, but it is familiarity from afar.

My room was no longer my room–my grandparents had lived in it, then my grandfather, and then my nephews. My bed and desk had long been moved out, as had any personal items. Now it was an empty room, with no furniture, the carpet ripped out.

My mom wants me to help paint while I’m here.

I settle into what used to be my sister’s room for the night. Tell my mom goodnight and shut the door.

There are a desk and dressers in the room. I immediately get the urge to go through the drawers. I open it slowly so my mom wouldn’t hear.

I expected random receipts and bits of paper–but the drawer was not as empty as I thought.

Programs from church services, graduations, and other ceremonies.

A forty-six year old picture of my grandmother, lounging on a chaise, posing for the picture.

A letter I had written to my sister on her 17th birthday.

I knew these things. They were familiar to me, even though I had not thought about them in years.

I closed the drawer and opened a cupboard in one of the dressers. There were books neatly lined up. My eyes glanced over the spines, and I recognized the last two immediately. They were tucked in the corner, at the very end.

My dad’s Bibles. In English and Portuguese.

They were the books I would see him hold from the pulpit. I pulled the English one first. I looked at the leather cover– his name imprinted in gold on the front. I turned the thin pages carefully. They were underlined and marked up. I recognized his handwriting in the margins.

I pulled the Portuguese one next. I just stared at it. The spine was breaking. I saw words with their English translation in the margins. Prayers and songs written out in Portuguese. I recognized a prayer he would often use.

I pulled out bookmarks that, like the photos, bring back instant memories. There are slips of paper tucked in–I read them understanding the Portuguese but not knowing the context.

I noticed writing on the front page. It is his handwriting.

I turn to it and just stare.

“To Daddy

Christmas 1980

From Valerie and Curtis

Curitiba, Paraná, Brasil”

I read it once. Then again.

My mind did the math.

I was five years old. Valerie was nine months.

I didn’t know what to do. So I closed the book and put it back on the shelf.