Those small pair of tennis shoes sitting by the front door can change the entire temperature of my house.

Not literally, of course.

The thermostat remains exactly where it always is.

But the temperature shifts in that quiet, unseen way — a kind of happiness that has a way of sneaking in and warming corners of your home and your heart that you never even realized had grown cold.

Yes, that is what happens every time my 3-year-old grandson, Layne, comes to spend time at my house.

It is especially true on those rare nights he gets to spend the entire night.

It is as if the entire space of my house, and my heart, exhales, softens and remembers.

He arrives with the energy of a summer storm, full of that rare electricity only young children can possess.

He is full of chatter and that type of curiosity that makes me grateful for every cabinet lock I ever installed.

His coat is usually half-buttoned, his hair is doing its own wild thing — and yet, it is still adorable.

And he is already trying to tell me about something that happened just yesterday.

Of course, to a child, “yesterday” could mean this morning, last week, or anytime since the day he was born.

I immediately pick him up because that is what we do as grandparents.

Never mind the problems with our back or the arthritis in our hands.

As always, he fits against me in that perfect way that only a small child can.

He is filled with all the trust in the world, full of warmth.

And just like that, I am transported.

It is so astonishing how quickly the years have gone by.

Those blinks.

One minute we are standing in our living room balancing a toddler on our hip and chasing another around the kitchen table.

The next minute we are awakening to a house of three boys, all racing down the hallway trailing in their wake dirty clothes, candy wrappers and video game cartridges.

You remember the weight of their small bodies as you carried them upstairs.

You recall the sound of their laughter as it drifted from room to room.

You think back to those days long ago and the way every day felt oh so long — as if they would never end.

And then you think back to the way all those years somehow slipped through our fingers.

Life was good then, wasn’t it?

It was busy, loud, messy, and exhausting — but good.

It was the kind of good that stays with us long after the noise fades.

The house is certainly quieter now.

The laundry doesn’t multiply overnight.

I haven’t had the need to do three loads of laundry a day for years.

The refrigerator shelves stay organized for more than ten minutes at a time.

And the Twinkies actually last in the box a little longer.

Sure, there is a certain kind of peace in that, a gentleness we have earned.

But whenever my grandson comes through that door with his overnight bag and his Bluey blanket, something inside of me starts to stir — something that remembers what it felt like to be needed in that immediate, uncomplicated way.

I find myself doing things I haven’t done in years.

I am cutting grapes in half.

I am looking for the right type of batteries to fit in the toys.

I am replaying the same video three times because he laughs hysterically at the same part over and over, and you find that you just need to hear that laugh again and again.

I watch him while he sleeps, his lashes resting on those cheeks which remind me he is still a baby.

It is then I begin to feel that familiar pull in my heart — the one that reminds me how sacred it is to care for someone so small, so vulnerable.

There is beauty in the repetition, in the rituals that return like old friends: The nighttime snack, the whispered prayers, the soft thud of little feet padding across the kitchen at dawn.

I realize that I am not just making memories with him; I am revisiting my own memories, dusting them off, and holding them up to the light.

In those moments, the years don’t feel so far apart.

The woman I was when my sons were young and the woman I am today stand side by side. Both are grateful.

Both are aware of how quickly childhood moves.

Both would love nothing more than to freeze time just long enough to savor it.

When he leaves the next morning, the house settles back into its usual rhythm.

The toys are gathered and the blankets are folded.

But the warmth still lingers.

The echo of his laughter hangs in the air like a hymn.

And I am reminded in a way only a grandchild can remind me that life was good then, yes — but it is good now, too.

It is different, quieter and seasoned with a little more tenderness, but still good.

Because love has a way of circling back.

It returns in smaller shoes, high-pitched laughter and the soft weight of an exhausted child leaning against my shoulder.

And when it does, it brings with it the sweetest reminder: The days I thought were gone forever still live inside.

And they are ready to bloom again and again, every time I hear the sound of a little boy’s knock on my front door.

(Stenger is the community editor of the Herald-Star and The Weirton Daily Times. She can be contacted at jstenger@heraldstaronline.com.)