My Father’s House

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They say that home is where the heart is. I have no doubt that this is true. In which case my home was imprinted in my heart before I was even born. It is my father’s home, my grandmother’s home, my great grandfather’s home and for a short while, my grandfather’s. Despite efforts to deny it many times, this is also my home. Some things we decide in life. Other things are decided for us. This home belongs to the former category. My heart home never stops calling me to return home. It’s voice is relentless. Sometimes louder, sometimes a silent echo, but always there.

Physical places, you see, are not just physical places. They may appear derelict and abandoned to the human eye, but they are always inhabited. My home is a glorious ruin with a soul that cries out and a garden that needs tending. Soul tending sometimes feels like an overwhelming and fearsome responsibility. Until I close my eyes and listen to my beating heart. I imagine myself sitting in the grand salon at the piano with Frederic Chopin playing. Once again I am restored. I have returned home.

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