And then there’s one’s parents’ home. Where one grew up. This is a very special house. Every scratch on the wall holds a memory. A life- time was spent within these walls. It feels warm and safe, embracing you from the moment you step inside and close the door behind you, like a chick in the nest that was carefully assembled by its parents; thread by thread, twig by twig. It has a special scent; that of sugar and cinnamon. A pinch of clove, perhaps.
You are not aware of the qualities your parents’ home possesses, and they are taken for granted. It is only when the safety, or the existence of this house is endangered that you become acutely aware of them.