Home was when she lived.When I was born.
While I grew up.
Home was when it was built
When it was filled
Where we had fun.
Sometimes, though, home becomes... not so home anymore.
Home was.
Home was home until she died.
Until I left.
After I grew up, and out.
Home was built.
Home was filled.
Home was fun.
Home was.
This is something I've realized and just come to terms with the fact of. Home was. I realized when she took that last breath I wouldn't be able to go back. When I did, it didn't feel like home. The old country road had turned into a road that was less traveled. A road that carried memories, like the trees beside it carried life.
The chairs were empty, the television silenced. All of the memories had gone, been locked up in a filing cabinet with everything else I forgot because bad things happened, and in turn of those bad things, I forgot. I forgot because I didn't want to remember. Because the bad things made the good things bad.
This place was just a house. It will be just a house for a long, long time. This house was built to be occupied by someone stronger than I. This house was built for those who want to settle down and stay, and deal with things that arise. This house was not meant for those who run. Run from fear, pain, emptiness. Who feel that a house cannot possibly hold anything to relieve that from them. This house was built with love, sweat, blood and tears. This house is held on memories. This house is not for the weak minded. This house is not for the emotionally obstructed.
Home was.
Home was full of memories. Some I still see faintly in my head. Those memories contain simple things that can be seen anywhere, but here it is special. The wind blowing on a fresh spring day where the air is filled with the fresh scent of rain, flowers and newly mowed grass. The water in the pond sparkling with the sun glistening off of it. The white siding on the house, too bright to look at directly, but if you looked to the side, you could tell it wasn't white, but off white, kind of gray-ish.
