Home

Growing up, I was accused of having no imagination. In many ways that is true. I don't dream of things I believe impossible, but tend toward wanting more of what I have. My dream home has a room for my parents to move into, and room for my brother and sisters if they decided to move here also. It would go up rather than out and have a shared living area, dining area, and kitchen. Sitting in the middle of an empty field, loads of room for animals and kids to play, it would look like a house pulled from a terrace. (terrace houses in England are connected together, often with 10 or more in a row, but once in a while there is an alleyway to pass through and gardens have gates that connect yards.)
Old bricks that are deep red and black from old coal deposits show wear but are still strong and protective. The chimneys stand tall and on cold days fires from within create puffs of smoke that dissipate on the breezes blowing by.
The front door is red, and the windows on sunny days are open so that curtains flutter in the air and beckon welcomingly to visitors. The sun reflects off the glass, but even on an overcast day, the clouds pass by overhead and their travels are mirrored in the glass.
Fireplaces inside roar to keep the chill away on cold winter nights, while rain drips its tears down panes that are fogged and uncaring.

OK, so my house is warm, welcoming, filled with family, and a haven from the elements.