My House Is Not My Home
Show me your house you say!
Did you mean show me your home?
My house is just a house,
A collection of collections, Frilly drapes, and pretty nik naks.
High ceilings that echo when the palace is empty,
And moldings that are rich and ornate
Constantly need cleaning to keep my life straight.
Oh yes my house is a castle,
But is it my home?
My home now is a much nicer place.
It is not a physical weight,
But that of memories and feelings.
Memories earned and filled with love, sadness and happy times.
My home is my brother on his wedding day,
Exchanging vows in the living room reserved for just such ways.
My home is my children, laughing and playing,
Crying and fighting, yet safe in a way.
My home is the window that my daughter climbed out,
As she was sneaking to meet that boy, the louse.
My home is the tear stains that mar the floor on the side of my bed,
Where gently my tears fell when I learned my father was dead.
My home is the memory of my grandmother cooking,
The smell of sulfa as the wooden match is struck,
Lighting a flame under the pot of stew,
Made with carrots and potatoes and some beef too.
My home is the memory of times on the front porch,
Where we shared our views and debated divorce.
My home is the memory of the good and the bad,
that which I treasure more than my trappings of gold leaf and mahogany chairs.
My home is where my love is,
The home of my youth,
The home with my mate,
The home where the children were happy and safe.
The place I want to be when the end of my life I see,
Is the home that I built through the joys and the strife.
My family and friends locked tight in my life.