The Writing on the Wall

There is something mystical about the way I feel each and every time I walk into my little home-away-from-home.

The house has been furnished with the excess from my home. It seems each piece of furniture comes with a story and a bit of history. The kitchen table was Mom's; Dad made the bench we use at the table; Dad reinforced one kitchen stool, while the second stool was Mom's; a bed that was once my brother's; the rocking chair Mom gave me prior to the birth of my youngest child; a dresser my sister refinished and donated when we moved to our new city with little besides the clothes on our back; a kitchen that is largely comprised of what was divvied up among us after Mom died; the stories go on and on. There is a large piece of history woven into the essence of the house. 

My son has sold his home and is storing some of his belongings within our joint investment which has added another dimension to our shared space. 

The only thing that has been out-sourced in the picture below are the kitchen chairs which fit into our home full of misfit furniture which has somehow come together in a wonderfully cohesive home.

Then there is the house itself, which seemed to call out and touch us in a up close and personal way  ...

 ... could it be as literal as the writing on the wall?

P.S. The flash on my camera wouldn't work when I snapped this picture, adding a dimness which enhances the writing on the wall, while still capturing the essence of the house which has been furnished with history. I kept the picture because it said what I wanted it to say.