I don't know what house Dad was writing about. We always seem to wait too long to ask the questions we should.

House Without Love

The Paint on the house, it's cracked and it's peeling,

The gate to the fence, don't close anymore,

Grass up to my knees, and last autums leaves,

cover the path that leads up to the door.

CH__A house without love not a home anymore,

 it's only a place to hide from the storm,

you eat there, you sleep there, when you leave in the morning,

you don't care if you ever go back anymore.

sometimes when I'm sleeping, I get to dreaming,

of rivers and valleys, and moutains so high,

then I wake up and I look around me,

I get so blue that I wish I could die.

CH__