When my wife, Margaret, passed away two years earlier, the house became more than a structure made of timber, brick, and plaster.
It became my sanctuary.
It was the only place where I could still feel her presence.
Sometimes, when I walked through the hallway early in the morning, I imagined I could still catch the faint trace of her perfume. When the wind moved through the trees outside the kitchen window, I could almost hear her laughter drifting through the rooms.
The land was not simply dirt and grass to me.
It was a lifetime of memories.
Near the back fence was the garden Margaret and I had planted during our first spring there. An old oak tree stood near the barn, its thick lower branch still carrying the marks from the rope swing our children had used for years. From the front porch, Margaret and I had watched more sunsets than I could count.
