I look in the old hand-held mirror that I’ve stuck up on the wall. I glance quickly behind me, wondering if my mother is behind me and it’s her image that I see.
I come to the old homeplace sometimes. I can feel the ghosts here so no wonder I think my mother has crept up on me. I sneak in the back door so no one will see me.
My childhood is here. I can hear it. My parents are talking softly in the kitchen. I sit down in the old rocking chair and wish for days gone by.
Photo credit @TedStultz
The Write Scribe 
Perhaps from another angle as we grow we begin to look like our parents in our imagination.
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That may be true, James! Thanks for the comment.
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I love the term “home place.” My Southern ancestors called their homes this. Nice mood!
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I grew up in the South and still live in a border state. I’ve heard the term “home place” all my life from grandparents and my mother. It is a very southern term. Thank you and thanks for the comment!
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All the love and happy memories she remembers just seem to have been absorbed by the house. No wonder she sneaks back to her “old home place.” 🙂
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Very astute! Thanks and thanks for the comment!
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Thank you and thanks for the comment!
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Oh, yes. Emotions I can feel. Nice.
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Thank you.
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Whether an actual physical structure or a metaphor, most of us do visit the old home place from time to time. Nicely told story.
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So true. Thanks for the comment!
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You’re welcome.
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My fiancé says he is lucky because the old home place that was built in 1906 is own by his brother so he can visit anytime.
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