Almost every single night for most of the 63 years that my grandparents were married, they would finish the day with a game of bridge. Almost every morning, they would wake early, eat breakfast together, and read the paper. When I was a child, I would wake early too. So on the weeks when we visited my Michigan grandparents from Philadelphia, I’d sit with them in the early mornings, my grandma would feed me waffles, and my grandpa would guide me through the comic section of the newspaper. Although these mornings were simple, observing my grandparents’ relationship was the first impression I ever got of a lifelong partnership. My grandparents were true midwesterners with a general demeanor of great kindness. They loved each other unconditionally, treated neighbors like family, and stayed true to their parallel routines. My grandpa died when I was 14, but to this day my grandma talks about her marriage as if she is the luckiest woman on the planet to have experienced such great divine love. Whenever I return to visit their house now, my body is overcome with feelings of comfort and safety that I can’t quite articulate. But mostly, every time I come to Michigan, I realize how quickly time has passed over the years. All of my cousins are adults now, some of whom I truthfully hardly know anymore. However, the familiarity of my grandparents’ kitchen table alone gives me solace. For my conference project in my drawing class last semester, I wanted to interrogate the comfort I feel in my grandparent’s house, but also how their house, to me, will always be synonymous with the way they loved each other, and what it means to love someone for a lifetime