bark/bite

A house is a machine designed to keep your peanut butter safe from wild animals. Things good and bad happen in houses over time. There are spiders on the basement ceiling and scratches on the dining room windowsills from dogs long gone (but who were once endlessly angered by the mailman).

Houses are piles of wood, cement, stucco or brick, arranged in straight lines and angles that trick you into stubbing your toe year after year.

A home, though, is not a machine.

A home is a thing we take with us wherever we go, a place without a place.

Home is an inside joke, dinner out with the kids, a song on the radio that makes you smile. Houses catch fire. Homes catch feelings.

After 30 years, we’re selling our house. But we’ll always be home.