Hearth of the Home
I pulled up to the house mid afternoon. The autumn sun was high in the sky just at its tip. It shined warmth against the cool breeze. I stepped out of the car and breathed in the crisp air as I looked upon the old Victorian manor. It stood with all its windows reflecting the sun at me, welcoming me once again to a familiar place that I had greeted many times in my life. I knew every bend and point of the roof, the corners of wood. All the imperfections, ones that nature caused and some that I might have caused as a kid.
I approached and unlocked the heavy front door. It swung open with a creak and revealed the dim inside. I flipped on the lights and the warmth poured back over the interior. The main entrance opened up to the living room which had large bay windows out looking the forested backyard. To the right through a large open space was the kitchen that was fashioned in a grayish theme with black trim. Marble of gold and black flashed in the sun light from the windows. To the left of the living room was a set of stairs that went down to the lower level and past that the bedrooms of the house. Three in all. My parents, mine and then my two sisters.
Or at least they used to be.
I moved through the house and observed the character that still remained. The family pictures, the little trinkets that were perfectly placed on each shelf, the fake and real plants that brought a bit of nature and balance to the rooms. Each room cast more memories in my direction. Like a whole lifetime playing out before my eyes. The good and the bad. This house contained them all with in its walls. I sat down on the couch in the living room which faced the front door. The house was still. The wind brought a few creaks and the house stirred a bit, but it was different.
I brought my hands to my face and tears streamed from my eyes. Emotions from a lifetime bubbled up from an abyss. The house that held us was no longer the same. The memories were not scarred into the wood structure, the pain and happiness not mixed with the foundation, the mirrors that watched and held out glances never captured those reflections. The house,in fact, was just a house. While it held us, it seemed full of life. Now, it was just a building. Music no longer ran through its hallways giving movement and energy. A pot or a stove no longer threw off heat and breathed life into the heart. Foot steps and laughter no longer rang high into the ceiling and bounced off for everyone to hear, even faintly. No longer was it home.
The house that I had lived in, that I dreamed of living in again, no longer held what I believed.
The house was not what my spirit cried for.
It was the people, who made it a home.
When ever I have been in my house with no one home or a place that is familiar I notice that it takes a different tone. It is all the little things that go on with a family that really bring something to life. Objects, such as a house or and item are really important, not because of the thing, but because of the memories and people associated with them. A house doesn’t seem the same with out the people inside it.
What is the fun of being in a castle, if your alone.