What is it made of? This home that we have within? Whether we like it or not, and among other things, it is made of other people, of what we acquire or inherit from them. And we carry it with us wherever we go. It´s an inseparable part of our self (not ourselves). And, again, whether that is good or not for some, the main people who live in our home within are our parents, or their absence, or what is left of our life with them. Both my parents are gone, but they were certainly essential for my home within. I thought about that in this 'story': THE HOME WITHIN, by Luciana Lhullier
