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Home

A decrepit abode, standing alone

Guarded by dark, sullen trees

All is still, delightfully tranquil

As sunlight filters through leaves

Colorful flowers, like moss on old towers

Weave toward the jagged rooftop

As I look at this place, tales meet my gaze

To which I lose a fragile teardrop

Way back when, this place was lived in

T’was full of light, laughter and love

Windows were opened, sunshine poured in

For someone, this house was enough

It was the birthplace of dreams, of precious mem’ries

Which they clung to when they felt alone

This place lacked nothing, it held everything

For someone, this house was Home

-Melissa Lynne Moody

It fascinates me that there was almost always a time when old, broken-down things were treasured…

Before my family moved, there had only been one house that I’d ever lived in. I loved that place with all I had. It truly was Home.

Whenever I visit my old town, I can feel how it “used to be” my place.

It isn’t anymore.

But it used to be.

I drive by my old house, and for a moment it’s almost like I never left.

I know that house like the back of my hand.

It was Home.

And even though it isn’t anymore, it still… it still used to be. It was a good house… it was a good Home.

I know that one day it will be someone else’s, and I want them to love that house the way I did.

I want them to treasure it.

I want them to live and laugh and learn to love underneath it’s big, gray roof. 

I want it to really be Home to them.

Even though it isn’t mine anymore, I want it to be someone’s. I want them to respect that old place, just like I did.

I lived so much of my life in that old house.

The house didn’t make the memories.

But the house holds them.

And walking through its door is opening the gate to Memory Lane.

Even though I’ve moved on, I don’t want it to be left.