My Memories and My Poetry
by Jennifer Greene-Sullivan
It’s strange how much of our identity gets tied to places, especially those filled with years of family memories. For me, that place was my grandmother’s home—a house that stood for over 100 years. It was more than just a structure; it was the backdrop to countless family gatherings, laughter, tears, and a deep connection that spanned generations. My entire childhood pivoted around that property.
Four months ago, they tore it down. Just like that, the home that had been a cornerstone in my life was gone. All I have left of that place are the photographs my grandmother took, an entire trunk full of them, sitting in my bedroom. And there are a few I carry with me at all times—not pictures of my children, but of the house. That home was where I felt most connected to my grandmother, and in some way, I still feel like that connection is tied to those images.
This photograph captures a piece of that world—the yard she nurtured, the familiar view that once greeted me every time I visited. I hold onto these pictures because they keep a part of my past alive, even when everything else has changed. But sometimes, the weight of those memories is hard to carry. The pain of what’s gone can feel as fresh as the day I first learned we would lose the home.
In the midst of these emotions, I wrote the poem below. It captures the deep sense of longing and identity that I still wrestle with when I think about that house and my grandmother.
BIRTHRIGHT
by Jennifer Greene-Sullivan
Just across that county line
There’s a place where
I was yours, and you were mine.
I am merely fragmented pieces of “fine.”
Eight years ago, they stuck you there—
A tiny box of ash—tidy as can be.
Not a damn sentiment or care
Was given to you or to me.
Pack it, sell it, will it away—
But I remember the rope swing swaying,
The scent of honeysuckle thick in the air.
The sun used to sink slowly over the field,
And back then, it felt like time was ours to spend.
Now, I long to be free—
Of this road, that house, the property.
Because after all this time, I find
I somehow assigned my identity—
To what was yours that
Without mistake—will never be mine.
The memories of my grandmother’s home may be bittersweet, but they’re also a part of me. As I reflect on that place and what it meant, I’m reminded that while buildings may crumble, the love and legacy tied to them never truly fade. For now, I hold onto the photos, the memories, and the lessons that place instilled in me—and maybe, one day, I’ll find a way to let go of the weight and just carry the love.
PS Thank you to my daddy’s brothers for leaving me with such a wonderful ending to my family legacy.
The Aging English Major 