Houses can be bought and sold, but homes cannot. Perhaps a house is no more than a few square feet of floor space but to someone, it’s 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 may be just shells, but, if houses had memories, what would those memories be?
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. It’s people, not a house, who make a home. No matter how far away from it I might wander, it is always ready to welcome me. Home is where love lives.
Yes, there’s no place like home. We may visit someone else’s place, but I always feel more secure being home again afterward.
Me too, Morgan. It’s nice to visit others, but very good to be back home again. Thanks for commenting.