When memory becomes home

When memory becomes home

When I was little, my mom worked long hours and my grandmother often stepped in to care for my brother and me. Most days, we were dropped off at my grandparents’ house on Pasadena Avenue, right over by Cardinal Mooney on the Southside of Youngstown. That house — though I don’t even know if it still exists — still lives inside of me. It was more than four walls and a roof. It was a place where childhood took root, where the mundane was magical an…