simple question

what's in a house?

Is it the wood and paneling and cement that keeps it together? When does a house really become a home? And, when does a home become nothing but a house again? Does the furniture, the comfortable reclining chair, the ratty old couch with the spring that bites your ass, make the home? Is it the scar of a glowing ember from the wood stove that jumped from it's fiery home to the dangerously flammable?

Or, could it be the random cat-fur tumbleweeds that float aimlessly along the floorboards trying to blend into the background and survive another week from the vacuum cleaner? Or the semi-permanent home of the iron and it's too-long 8 -foot cord that clogs up the visual line of the wood stove? Or is the home made because of the copious number of tennis shoes that lay scattered on the floor like lost boats on a stormy sea seeking their port?

How about the winter coats that cover the couch like a plastic sleeve, protecting the soft surface of the couch from the sharp claws of the cats? The books that line the floor next to the chair and threaten a hostile take over of the cat's climby toy - do they make the house what it is?

Sometimes, maybe, could it be the sound screaming fire alarm that serves as the buzzer for when the food is "done" in the oven or in the stove? Or is it the sound of the slamming door as the flaming food is tossed from the house? Is it the blaring sounds of an eccentric taste in music that ranges from Count Basie to Linkin Park to Hawthorne Heights, then back to Lil' Wayne and Jay Sean?

So, what is it that makes a house a home - when all there is in the home is just things and no feelings or emotions - is just a house again?