home

We are earthbound creatures, Maggie had thought. No matter how tempting the sky. No matter how beautiful the stars. No matter how deep the dream of flight. We are creatures of the earth. Born with legs, not wings, legs that root us to the earth, and hands that allow us to build our homes, hands that bind us to our loved ones within those homes. The glamour, the adrenaline rush, the true adventure, is here, within these homes. The wars, the detente, the coups, the peace treaties, the celebrations, the mournings, the hunger, the sating, all here.

A house is just a house for its structure and matter but when you add to this a warm caring family the house transforms into a home.

She who has the excellence of home virtues, and can expend within the means of her husband, is a help in the domestic state

I acknowledge that a wife does (and should) exercise a degree of control in the family and home; but what I present is not a constructive form aimed at supporting a healthy relationship, but a destructive form that__hether intended or not__estroys a relationship through the invocation of fear and flight rather than love and commitment. I also propose that this method or __evice_ (as I have called it) was learned in part from a very young age from her parents.

It will no longer be necessary to leave one's own home in order to find work in the surrounding districts, which means spending week after week away from home, for no matter how restless a fellow might be, his own home, if he has a wife he respects and children he loves, has the same satisfying taste as bread, a man's home is not for all hours, but he soon begins to miss it if he does not go back there every day.

Let's accept it that we remember people only when we have some work and only our Mother_ remembers us and calls us for no reason, just to know how we are doing!

Home is where they want you to stay longer

Because I think people must be the same everywhere. Only these people are in my bones.

I have made you some things, for when you get back. I understand now, all the baking you sent me, stale and crumbled in brown paper and rough twine. Now you__e away and I am here. So I will make and make until you get back to remind you, and myself: there are reasons to come home.

But even if every house looked identical-if all the furnishings were the same- it still wouldn't feel like yours.That's because home isn't where you are. It's who you're with.

Old Barley might be as old as thee hills, and might swear like a whole field of troopers, but there were redeeming youth and trust and hope enough in Chinks's Basin to fill it to overflowing.

Of course, it__ now obvious why he was so angry that day. People don__ move into hospice to live but to die. And that half an egg sandwich I ended up making him__hat sandwich was the last meal he ate in our Haight-Ashbury apartment, our one true home.

A tiny home with love was better than a world without it.

As he moves through his day, sometimes he stops and just stares at me. There is something on the tip of his tongue. But he doesn't say it. I'm not sure he knows what it is.

Afghanistan changed him, but Iraq sculpted him.

I'm looking at the ruins of my own existence and knowing, with a sickening certainty, that my old home and my old life have been truly destroyed.

I remember our childhood dayswhen life was easyand math problems hard.Mom would help us with our homeworkand dad was not at home but at work.After our chores, we__ go to the old fort museum with clips in our hair and pure joy in our hearts.You, sister, wore the bangles thatyou, brother, got as a prize from the Dentist.__hy the bangles?_ the Dentist asked, surprised, for boys picked the stickers of cars instead.__hey__e for my sisters,_ you said.Mom would treat us to a bottle of Coke,a few sips each. Then,we__ buy the sweet smelling bread from the same white vanand hand-in-hand,we__ walk to our small flat above the restaurant.I remember our childhood days.Do you remember them too?

Coming home to someone is many things. It is a literal action, an abstract idea, a physical feeling. It is more than the sound of the key turning in the door and the voice that calls from the porch. It is a choice, a promise, a declaration. It is a return, not as a person to a place, but as oneself to another. It is one person saying to another person: You are the one I choose.