I have loved this house since we sat on the dining room floor in the waning light sunlight of a summer day and it whispered to us.
"Welcome Home."
Wrapping it walls around me like a cozy blanket on a cold winter's morning, it loves me as much as I love it. Every creak is familiar. I can walk through the rooms in the dark and never trip. The doors stick, the steps are too narrow, there's still some walls with 60's paneling, but I love it.
It's showing it's age now in the wrinkles in the walls and the grime that's going to take a lot of elbow grease to clean off the cupboards. But these walls hold lots of memories. Memories that make me laugh and smile, and yes, they also make me cry.
If these walls could talk they would share with you our excitement at owning our own home and the boys reminding us that now we could get a dog. It would tell you about the nights the boys snuck up the stairs and the fights we had as a family.
If these walls could talk, they would tell you about teaching the boys to cook and they'd probably share my dad's secret recipe for french toast. They'd laugh as the told stories about family Christmas's with 37 people in the house.
They'd tell you all about Friday nights with friends and their kids and singing and dancing in the dining room.
If these walls could talk they'd sniffle a little as they describe how lonesome it can be now with only the two of us and Chloe here and share the excitement of new Christmas memories with the grandkids.
If these walls could talk, they'd say,
"Welcome Home"
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