The Old Home

Home rests where the heart remembers,
in the house that first held me.
At the heart of the home
two children grew sturdy
within its warm embrace,
an old home upon an older street.
Here is my home that rests on red brick walls
tall and strong
ceilings high, windows open to the warm light.
Shrubs traced the garden’s edges,
centring a fountain found nearby.
Paintings gathered on the walls,
the fireplace shared its warmth,
and archways curved elegantly.
No grand welcomes—
only my own small story,
an old narrative.
And as I close my eyes I am grateful still,
that this old house is mine.