On the porch of a weather worn house, sits a creak old rocking chair. It moves slightly when a good breeze blows and you can hear it speaking ever so slowly. It tells a tell of aged grand parents rocking a new born babe. It tells of many a night spent staring at the stars, while holding someone you love close. The chair is a silent witness to many a times that have gone by. For the good or the bad, it is a place still that brings me home and reminds me of what home is to me.