But it’s just a building, walls and windows, floors and doors.

With all its walls and windows, floors and doors,

I’m in my home.

Sometimes, it engulfs me in warmth, sometimes; it empowers me in courage,

Sometimes, it repairs me with comfort; I am surrounded by the calmness of home.

It’s just a building, walls and windows, floors and doors.

Yet, I can be overwhelmed by its vast emptiness, and aloneness that holds me safe inside its passages.

I’m afraid sometimes to step out and greet the day.

What if I can’t leave, what if I have to leave. Can I bear it, can I survive.

Is it my destiny to live here for an eternity, or will I move on and call home somewhere else.

If I’m gone, will my loved ones know where to find me.

It’s just a building, walls and windows, floors and doors.

No, I say, it’s my home.

It can be a great burden, even greater when it holds you hostage. Sometimes you can look out and see the moon, the sun, the vastness of the sky and wonder, can I just fly away, can I see more.

What if I no longer can take care of it.

What if I no longer want it. I want to be free of it. Just leave and not come back.

it’s just a building, walls and windows, floors and doors.

No, I say, it’s my home.

One night I had a dream.

It wasn’t there when I arrived. It wasn’t there anymore.

That spot where it usually was, on the street across from the alley and the mailbox.

A house was there, but it wasn’t my home.

it’s just a building, walls and windows, floors and doors.

No, I say, it’s my home.

There should be a tree in the front yard, a tall tree with leaves that turn purple in late summer on one side, a pine tree that my son planted for me on the other. Harriet, a wild but tame rabbit likes to sit under it for shade.

There should be a patch of lavender under a dogwood surrounded by handpicked river stones.

It’s just a building, walls and windows, floors and doors.

No, I say, it’s my home.

A walk up the steps backed with beautiful iridescent tile, to a welcome stone and a hand painted old door.

An inviting covered porch with wicker chairs and pots of flowers for us to sit and take in all the warmth and smells of summer nights, surrounded by the heavenly scent of lilacs in the spring.

Where is it, I wonder.

But it’s just a building, walls and windows, floors and doors.

No, I say, it’s my home.

Will my border collie be patiently waiting for me in the yard, he must be hungry by now.

There has to be a bone buried somewhere, he knows he’s not supposed to dig there between the Saskatoon bushes, or the raspberry bushes, or the rhubarb, but where then, did he bury it.

But it’s just a building, walls and windows, floors and doors.

No, I say, it’s my home.

What about the backyard. If its not there, then where is it.

The stairs that go down to the landing, where an oasis begins and the outside world ends; I worked really hard on it, sanding, staining, tiling; on my hands and knees for days.

it's finished now, it's comfortable.

But it’s just a building, walls and windows, floors and doors.

No, I say, it’s my home.

A reserve for the birds, tempted every year by the cozy birdhouses and the lush saskatoon berries.

a place for rest and relaxation. Pour some fruit wine, rest a while.

It's just a building, walls and windows, floors and doors.

No, I say, it’s my home.

I am going to wake up soon and discover it still there.

If I try calling, then what.

Will it call out for me, when I can’t find it. Oh don’t be so silly. How can I be so attached to it, so head over heels in love with it.

It’s just a building, walls and windows, floors and doors.

No, I say, it’s my home.

I'm awake now.

The evening sun hits my face as it fades into the horizon.

I’m at home.