These walls are hung in memory - thick quilts of hushing babies and rocking tantrums and snuggling stories and tears that ebb in the wake of a tickle.

These walls are heavy with our story.  With the stories of others before us.  With history that we can't touch - reaching back to the laying of brick and mortar in 1903.

We have poured our heart in here, moulding out a place of our own, dressing it in love - because it is possible to love a place - to set it like a seal upon our souls...

These walls were dressed in turmoil - so dark and foggy - that first time we came through the door.  But it became ours in that moment and paint splattered in my hair as I rolled my claim upon that darkness, forging it for light - for a place to drape the word: HOME.

And it is home.  And it could be forever.  I could grow old here.

But we suffer for space.  For room to play and grow and forage.  For a tree in which to build a secret.  For a field in which to run.  For each to have a place of their own, a door to seal on their own private thoughts...

There is the offering of my childhood home and now I dream of raising my children where I was raised.  And if the time is right I pray for someone to come within these walls and love this home as I have and do and build their own memories upon my own - because whether I leave or whether I stay, this house will alway have my fingerprints upon it - coiled wreaths of the for better and worse I have breathed within these aged walls.