The key they’d given me still fit the lock, but the house no longer felt like home. I opened the door as usual, but when I opened it I was greeted with the scent of dust and a clock that no longer ticked. The room was filthy with cloths draped over the furniture in hopes to keep it clean. The wallpaper was no longer colorful and alive, it was faded and stained with dirt. The kitchen no longer had the waft of freshly made soup or the sound of laughter as dinner was being made. Instead the floors creaked and the wind blew through the broken window. No laughter greeted my ears, let alone the anticipation of a home cooked meal embedded with the love of a mother. I will never taste that again. Only through memories will this place feel like home because it wasn’t the house that made me love it so much, it was the people in it. But as they say all good things come to an end, just as my mother did.