A House Is Not A Home

  A house is not a home until those four walls, perhaps more, have contained it’s own… sense of life. Something it can call its own if it were to ever call at all. A home, in essence, is a soul; A house being its temple.

  I hope to someday be reincarnated into a home. I know such is a strange wish, but just… try to imagine it.

  To become aware of my body structure the moment a young lady enters my newly acquired front door, instantaneously she says to herself,”I’m going to build my life here.” She buys the place as quickly as possible and sets to furnishing it by her tastes.

  Skip forward fifteen years.

  A baby girl is taking her first steps across my beige carpet, rushing for her father. Her father that created a beautiful love with the lady who adopted me, who made his daughter passionately in one of my bedrooms two years after marrying the woman who made me a home for herself and her family so much longer before. She didn’t know then that the kitchen table would eventually have three place mats rather than one, or how soon if she so expected. I watched her cry, laugh, drink, hug, scream, and love within my body, but I was her home. I watched her drown in bills as she tried to maintain me as solely her own.

  To die the day her daughter assists her through my front door for the last time. This is what I dream of becoming someday.

  Who knows though? I mean maybe someday I really will take on the position of a home. Maybe someday I will nurture and love somebody and protect them and I won’t need four walls to do so. Maybe, just maybe someday, someone will find a home within my heart. I’d have my wish, no? Besides… this way I’d be able to tell their soul how much mine loves theirs.

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