HOME!
I’ve come to believe that’s one of the finest things anybody can become. Not rich. Not famous. Not important. Simply home. The kind of person children run toward instead of away from. The kind of friend who makes burdens feel lighter just by sittin’ beside you. The kind of neighbor who leaves a porch feelin’ more welcomin’ than when they arrived.
Years from now nobody will remember what kind of truck you drove. Or how big your house was. Or whether your lawn was the greenest on the street. But they’ll remember how they felt when they were with you. Whether your laughter made theirs come easier. Whether your table always seemed to have room for one more plate. Whether your porch light burned a little longer for someone who needed it. Whether your presence made ordinary days feel extraordinary.
In the end I don’t reckon that’s a bad way to be remembered at all. Because if you’re very fortunate somebody, somewhere, will think of you one quiet evenin’ and smile without even realizin’ they’re smilin’, and say, “I always felt at home with them.”
To my way of thinkin’…
There ain’t a finer epitaph in the whole English language.
