I felt as if I were stepping back in time. It had been almost eight years since I had walked into my grandparents home in Buenos Aires, Argentina. While each book had kept its place, the reporter repeated the same news from the TV in the kitchen, and the tea seemed to be perpetually set at the table, there was a fragility in the house that I hadn't sensed on my last visit. The winding trail from the entrance to the back door was more defined. If I looked hard enough I swore I could almost see three tracks set in the floor tiles; one from shuffeling feet, and the other two from the walker's wheels. My grandfather still drank out of the same mug with the large J printed in black, but the handle was missing and a long crack ran along its side. There were more labeled bottles on my grandmother's bedside table. 

Much like the country of Argentina, my grandparent's home remains fixed in the time of its greatness. The only dynamic process is that of a slow and graceful decay that can only be perceived upon close inspection.