My Home

I can recognize you just by your smell.

The entrance with the brown door beside the olive tree.

 The winter began, the olives are already fell, and probably father will sweep them on one Saturday morning after he drinks his black coffee.

The tiles that remember everything that happened in this house. Even if one of them will be switched, it will be so remarkable and weird.

This form of the chairs in the kitchen that my children stood on for years when they couldn't get to the tap or helped my mother in cooking.

That unique feeling of comfort that I get when I sit on the sofa.

That blanket crocheted by mother loving hands, and that is always there. Each time I cover myself with you I feel how you waited for me, to warm me, to be my shield and my protector.

That silver cutlery that is used by our family for two generation add a special taste of warmth to the food that is eaten in this house.

Mother's festive dishes that just by seeing them on the dining table you can feel holiday in your heart.

That constancy in everything around that awards me with certainty and safety,

 this is my home and not just my house.

 

 

The End

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