A house. That's what it looks
from the outside. But if you see
the wallpapered walls within, if you can
hear the laughter of the children, the smell of
bread baking, voices speaking, it is a home.
A home that holds memories of its
past occupiers. If you listen closely,
Shadows of the past whisper,
"This is where I stood. That is the chair I built.
These are the windows I looked out of."

Memories. That is what makes this a home.
Some we cherish, some are just painful
reminders that we make mistakes, and in
the end family is all we have. Family will outlast
time. Memories passed down generations tell us
who are we, how we came to be.
Possessions are lost, fame fades, friendships
can shatter like glass.
But the memories, the memories this home holds,
will never die.