The feel, the sound, the aura of it.
Rooms that are more people and times and events
Than walls and roof and floor.
A space that lives and breaths.
This place we inhabit that is ours because we have made it so.
It has grown with us and vibrates with life and memory and love that records our passing years
Every ghost that stalks our life is here in this space.
Mothers and Fathers,
All the highs and lows the new comers and the longstayers,
family, friends and lovers.
Our triumphs and our failures are recorded on its walls.
First drawings, school reports hold equal sway with medals, trophies and degrees.
Every nook and shady corner,
All the bright sunbeams and dusty wraiths that dance across scarred wood floors and illuminate faded family portraits.
Carpeted hallways that wear the signs of all our passing.
Door frames nicked to record the growth of sons now long gone and those still growing.
This place is us, its heart is ours, this place we call out house but it is so much more it is our refuge, our safe place, our home.
Dave Kavanagh October 2014