This old, weather beaten brick house beckons us.

I slide my fingers along the crumbly mortar joints,

Watching as it’s flakes fall like pixie dust, to the ground.

The faded, red façade, having faced decades of

Harsh winters and simmering summers,

Slowly reveals the soul of a humble home,

Like an apple whose skin is peeled to its core.

This house, the last link to a childhood, youth and manhood, still

stands, though a bit worn and weary.

It continues to provide shelter, where people are born, raised

And die.

As the years take their toll on the shell of this honored home

The sounds of joy and sorrow still whisper thru its walls,

Fanning the flames that keep the memories of our loved ones alive