After the drafty old mansion, we snuggled into that hug of a house and felt a once elusive sense of ease breeze in.
The house born of an architect's plan lived and breathed upon the rock, foundations perfectly sound, all set to stand for generations to come.
My house is a kaleidoscope of memories, of photographs adorning the walls, each of them conjuring the emotions of those sweet eternal moments.
My house has a bonny door that expresses itself brightly in all seasons, deeper in wintry days and vivid upon the coming of the summer sun.
My house has large arched windows. Through them light flows through all seasons, gracing the air without favour, illuminating the sweet-toffee browns of the wooden floor.
There is a song in the walls of the house that raises my spirits in quiet moments, when the wind becomes still air and it sounds as if the world has paused to take a moment to breathe. In those silent words, in the purity of its expression, I find my inner peace and realise that I am home.
The house was welcoming from the open door to the wide hallway. Upon the walls were the photographs of children, so obviously so loved. The floor was an old-fashioned parquet with a blend of deep homely browns and the walls were the greens of summer gardens meeting a bold white baseboard. The banister was a twirl of a branch, tamed by the carpenter's hand, it's grain flowing as water might, in waves of comforting woodland hues. Under the lamp-shine it was nature's art, something that soothed right to the soul.
This house is my home, where the laughter happens and I can rest at the end of the day. From the street it is bricks and mortar topped with tile, the same as any other. Yet if you step inside you'll feel it's so different, a place where the lungs choose to fill a little deeper and the heart beat a little steadier.
Those bricks were laid one at a time, perhaps on a fine spring day. I let my eyes wander the roughness and how each is so very straight. This house was made with love, that's for sure.