At the end of the holidays, I went to my grandmother’s house. She hasn’t been here for a few years now; she’s gone to heaven. And we, those of us who remain, are slowly realizing that she’s not coming back.

Their house is apparently still, in a big way, intact. The same furniture, wardrobes, beds, paintings, and dishes… and from time to time we spend a few days there together as a family.

Many times, in the silence of the house, it’s as if she’s about to appear down the hall with her smile and that characteristic gait of a self-made woman who took life on a high and, with great strength and determination, fought for her family.

My grandmother has an attic. A place I loved to visit when I was little, and imagination was a fundamental tool for children’s play. You could find everything there, and for a little girl, it was like a theme park dedicated to creating stories and tales.

There was a lot of memory stored in that space. Memory of a family, of many people who were no longer with us. Of a bygone era. Of a tradition.

On this last trip, I returned to the attic. It’s not as big as I thought it was. It doesn’t have as many things as it used to, but it still gives off that familiar scent that envelops you when you enter. A fragrance that makes it inevitable to take a few minutes of silence to enter the space with great respect. I’d say, almost to the point of taking off your shoes.

It’s as if there were a sign telling you: Attention, silence, you are entering a place of memory.

I thought about this. About remembering and how important it is. I thought about the stored memories. About my grandmother and her life, and all the love she gave us, which is precisely what she left us. A life dedicated to serving her family and the courage to never give up. I thought about the legacy in the form of love and faith she left me, and a tremendous sense of gratitude filled my heart. A legacy that has nothing to do with all the belongings and things she left in her attic.

A love given in life that has remained imprinted on me and is capable of moving me every time I remember it.

And I thought about my legacy. What I want to leave for my children and, I hope, grandchildren. For my nephews, my sister, and those friends who have that title, even though we don’t share blood.

The answer is so clear and so simple… a footprint like that of my grandmother, whose heart had little to do with the clutter of an attic or the dust that tends to accumulate there.

And there, I believe, lies the key: in organizing your heart to leave the necessary space for what is essential. The ordo amoris of Saint Augustine.

Maybe we’re too concerned about order at home. We want everything neatly arranged, well-decorated, and beautifully done. But what about our hearts? Is they in order?

Because sometimes it can feel like an attic where things are stored without order or intention. A conglomeration of desires, affections, and desires that it’s good to organize and organize.

Knowing yourself and truly understanding the desires that guide your actions is crucial for living life coherently. So that it speaks of you and not someone else. So that there is room for what’s important. Because where your treasure is, your heart will also be.

It’s a fact that our fast-paced, immediate lives don’t help us clean up deeply, and that’s why, in the midst of the noise of our routines, it’s easy to fall into automatism and disarray.

Finding that space to pause and look at your deepest interior is essential to realizing where it truly lies and what it’s filled with. To dust and remove any dust. To prioritize and put what’s important in its place. To give time, that rare and precious commodity, to what’s essential, which has much to do with people and little to do with material things.

In short, to contemplate your heart and make sure it’s not an attic.

Because that legacy that will endure in our loved ones will have little to do with possessions. Just as, the only thing that will go in our suitcase when we embark on the most important journey of our lives will be the love we have given. That love has come to life. Embodied in small and large gestures. In the ordinary, in the little things. In what no one sees, and when no one sees you.

Yesterday, I went to the theater to see the film “Solo Javier,” which I highly recommend. It tells the story of a real, flesh-and-blood person who discovered his heart was made for something greater than material wealth. He bore witness with his life to how the happiness we all yearn for has nothing to do with having it.

Sitting on my couch at home, I look at the Sacred Heart I found a while ago inside a suitcase in my grandmother’s attic and ask it to help me care for and organize my heart. To rid myself of what weighs me down. To empty myself of that human pride and respect that take up so much space. To embrace my vulnerability without fear, and to love deeply.

And if you ask, I confess that I would love to have an attic as beautiful and full of history as my grandmother’s.