There is a house. Every misshaped stone set in place with course mortar and weathered hands. Thatch spills over the rooftop, shading the blossoms and herbs. A creeping vine winds its path up the side of one wall, finding a home in every crevice of chipped stone. A cobblestone pathway leads to a large wooden door, beckoning the friend and stranger alike. There is a home. A kitchen with a brick oven. Every pot is cast iron and every pan is made of copper. All the spoons are wooden, absorbing the flavors of the food. An old woman is there, with a kind, wrinkled face. Her face, arms, and apron are covered in flour, and she kneads a lump of dough with expert hands while humming a tune. A loaf of fresh bread rests nearby, waiting for the expected, yet unknown visitor who would next enter the doorway. A basket of fresh vegetables waits to be blended into a hearty soup.
Peek around the hallway. An old man sits in a chair with an even older book on his knee. He lifts his pipe and ponders life. A map and a telescope are placed near the window, hinting of someone still young at heart. A cup of tea half drunk and a pair of wiry spectacles are nestled among papers on the table. The song of a bird drifts on the breeze through the open window. Tiptoe around the corner. The wooden floor creaks beneath soft feet. A wardrobe, a dim mirror, peeling paint, a lace duvet. What memories are to be found here? Follow the hallway to the back door. Step outside again. The morning mist is gone, the countryside alive. A well pump still flows, and white linens dance up and down the clothesline. The days drift by slowly, contentedly; speaking of a life well lived, well shared, well served, well loved.
One carries a beautiful face who has lived long in hardship, yet whose heart still beats with dreams. Dreams of love and joy and unseen things. A life who gives and pours and loves will leave behind a legacy. There is a house. It is more than sticks and stones. It is a labor of love to those whose lives the dweller touches. There is a home.
