Home

Home is where the heart is.
Home is where you hang your hat.
Home.
My home is a structure recently expanded upon that was filled with decades of love before I ever took possession.
It's my grandparents house.
I grew up, in part, in this house.
I'm raising my babies in this house.
The only room I can't see my grandparents in is my bedroom, and, while we're not hanging from the rafters lately, I think that's a good thing. Because I'm pretty sure grandpa doesn't need to see that!
But when I walk in, I catch a glimpse of the past superimposed over the present.
I see two recliners and a black couch and chair that I grew up with. I see my grandpa's ratty old fisherman's shoes with the hole in the toe. I see my granny walking in from the kitchen with a oatmeal pie in hand.
There is a little boy reclining on the couch and a curly headed little girl snuggled up against grandpa.
There's a dog snoring on the floor.
I see home.
And then, in an instant, I see my house as it really is.
Still a home. But one with toys on the floor and red walls (which I'm sure grandpa hates and granny loves), one with three children running to greet me with happy smiles and a husband coming out of the kitchen with dinner ready.
I see short haired boys with devilish grins falling over swiftly growing feet to tell em about their days. An the curly headed girl that was me thirty years ago is now my daughter, and that seems right.
I lay awake and listen to the sounds of the house, some as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. I know my children are safe in their rooms, rooms that are guarded by doting great grandparents who whisper sugar laden dreams to my babies while they sleep.
And while our plans may take us away from this house, I know, for me, it will always be home.
And home is where my heart is.