My house is so quiet. The wind rustles through the trees in the backyard, a sound I’ve always loved, and today… it only exacerbates my aching heart. The birds chirp happily in their cage in the sunroom, and the golden fall light pools on the floor under the window- and it makes the unnatural silence echo through my raw heart.
My kids are in California, with my family. My house is big and empty. There are whispers of memory everywhere I turn, but they are shades, transparencies, veiled and yellow like an old fading photograph curling in the sun.
No matter how much you love your home and think it’s where your heart is, it’s not. Your home is an empty shell, a vacant lot, without those you love lighting it’s walls. The old adage got it wrong.
Your home is in your heart- not the other way around.