As we pulled down the long, cracked drive, I looked at the old houses we passed. Short and quaint transitioned to bulky and worn. I scanned the houses until my eyes became fixed on a vaguely familiar one. My father and step-mother exited the car when we parked in front of the house, with anticipation. I hesitated.
The house looked like that out of a children's book: pastel green siding with maroon shutters, the paved walkway spiraling to the front porch. I thought back to the last time I had been at this house. It had looked tired and was full of memories, but now the overgrown bushes had vanished into a perfectly sculpted garden with rows of parallel pink tulips. The huge towering maple had disappeared and showed part of the house a new light, one that hadn't been seen in decades.  It was not the house I had remembered; only a prosthetic family home was left in its place.
My parents were halfway up the path when I came out of my daze. The realtor, with a plastic smile, unlocked the door and walked in displaying the “new grand foyer”. It's surprising that “new” is just a fresh coat of paint and some plaster.
As we invaded the kitchen, I noted that the cream laminate countertop had been replaced with a clean marble. I thought back to when my grandmother and I would cook Oreo bombs, tie dye cake, and my other fun ideas that would be on Pinterest today; the long hours of my grandmother preparing thanksgiving dinner; my many attempts to surprise my grandparents with fresh double-double coffee.
When a certain toy would be out of place in my room, I would tremble with anger. However I could not describe my outrage and animosity when I saw the dining room wall missing. The wall used to hold my grandmothers upright piano, the single most iconic item that reminded me of my grandmother. She loved playing and singing close to everyday until she became sick. She would lie in bed taping her fingers, as if playing the salt and pepper colored keys, to the beats of random commercial tunes day after day. The dining room was bare and most likely the same color, however that was the transformation of the room.  It had been ill lit for years with incredibly high stacks of overdue bills covering the grand lengthy table. I tried to shake it off as returned my attention to the tour.
With a slap across the cheek from a new pastel color, we entered the living room. I mapped out the layout of the old room in my mind. I remembered the stained, checkered, musty couch that sat at the far wall. It was the place that I slept and dreamt about the pancakes my grandfather would bring me every morning as a child. The green shag carpet I scattered my toys on had been torn out and substituted with cold hardwood. The refaced fireplace stood tall, just as my grandfather did when he was asked to leave the house he raised his children in.
I clenched my jaw as we left the living room to tour the second floor. At that moment, I was a ghost floating around, reliving the past. I ignored the door that used to lead to my bedroom. When I was young, it was my playroom; later, after my parents got a divorce, it became my bedroom. Although I do not recall most of the second floor I remember recognizing the door leading to the master bedroom. It was the last room my grandmother had lived in. From the floors, to the color, to the moved closets, I could not comprehend that it was the same room. Not only had it changed, It was a different room in a whole other house. 
It was not the house I grew up in, nor a house I wanted to see. All of the tragic and beautiful events that occurred in that house had melted and blended together to create a home. However when it is stripped of that, the house becomes just another product on the market. My memories are all I have left, and they would sell much better than that shadow of a house.