This place.
This place that my father built, with the helping hands of many. This place that once was nothing more than a foundation, one that we would walk along the top of, pretending it was the yellow brick road.
This place that is close to the hardware store where my father would buy us Cherry Italian Ice on those hot summer construction days. The hardware store that was owned by the father of the boy I would some day marry.
This place is where my mom would soak beans and crochet and bake all of our bread. Where my dad would split wood and fix cars and sit in his green plaid lazy boy chair at the end of the day. But only at the end of the day, when all the work was done.
This place is where the room Emily calls her own, was mine as a child. The room that was bright yellow, then navy blue, then lavender, then hunter green. The room that still has a burn mark on the wood floor from an incense 'incident'. Aerosmith was playing when it happened. I was the age she is now.
This place with stone walls and "the back field." The field that was filled with tall grass and milkweed when we were kids. And sometimes, a vegetable garden.
This place that could tell you so much more.
This place is home.
(I don't think I've mentioned that yet. xo)
