The floors of this house are cold.
Wrapped in brick walls,
the air, too, is cold
and it fills me with a sense of loneliness
as if a glimpse into my future;
an old woman buried in layers of sweaters
because the meat on her bones has all but worn away.
Perhaps my house feels the same.
The weight of the years bearing down,
making it ever more difficult to resist her own decay.
Each season, not really so different from the last.
Yet her mood seems to brighten
as you step across the threshold,
carrying with you the warmth of your smile
and the easiness of your laugh.
She sighs with the contentment
of one who knows that this is more than just a house.
This is home.