There is still some tidying and cleaning to do there, and when we go back it seems strange to think that we actually lived there a few short weeks ago.
The moment we moved the stuff out of there, it lost that essence of home, and our new house seems to have very quickly become our home.
I wonder exactly what it is. Perhaps the fridge. Like the nourishing mother of the modern family. Perhaps the TV, like a father who speaks and everyone shuts up to listen.
Or is the essence of home there in the details? That jar of pens, most of which don't work. A pair of pajamas with a button missing. An odd sock hanging up, waiting to find its partner. A chip in the woodwork, or a stain in a carpet.
