Houses can be bought and sold, but homes cannot. Perhaps a home is no more than a few square feet of floor space but to someone, it may be home.
Old houses, large houses, tiny houses and tumble-down houses have histories. As I pass them by, I wonder if love lived within their walls. I wonder if they echoed with laughter. Some are sadly neglected and just shells, but, if houses had memories, what would those memories be?
Can much of the unhappiness in this world be traced back to a lack of a home? Values are learned, hopes and dreams are nurtured in homes.
Home is a place where people know me and accept me. Home forgives and gathers me close. Others may turn their backs on me, but not my home. Home can be made of family or friends. No matter how far away from it I might wander, it is always ready to welcome me. Home is where love lives.
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