The parental house does not look. It is the most sacred memory of childhood: the remembrance of our first steps, the memory of our mother, of her infinite love and care, the memory of everything that was best and cleaner in our lives. Going to the threshold of the house, throwing us into the dearest arms of the world, to the chest of those who gave us life, we realize what many gaps in the soul brings away from home, and what is serene and full of spiritual reconciliation is the moment when we breathe relieved I AM HOME!
With the passage of the years, the love of the parental home becomes painful. Seeing us at our house, away from the walls where we have grown up and who know all the secrets of adolescence, away from the street, which even today, wandering, envelops the sweet echo of childhood, the longing for home and parents does not even leave us for a moment…
In our souls, this home remains an altar in front of which we kneel eyes with tears of happiness and pain, longing and love. Wherever we would not go, whatever we would not do, the parental house will always be in our hearts and thoughts in every part of us, if not a ray of sunshine ... then a shadow hiding the mother's warm gaze and warm hug Grandmother's stories, laughing like a bell clinker of the smaller brothers, the crowd of dusty toys and forgetfulness, the dozens of shots on the shelves of memories.
We will never forget this, because the parental house does not look, it does not sell, it is not borrowed ... It is kept there in the soul with the clearest memories: the memories of our sweet childhood ...