What it means.

It's the sound of the rain on the roof.
It's your arm on my chest and a dog in my lap.
It's a deep and abiding peace.
It's a slow and gentle hum.
It's the smell of last night's roast, of my favorite incense and the grainy mulch.
A little bath wash, a little fabric softener, an old vanilla candle.
It's blankets and the fireplace.
Your heavy sleeping breaths in my hair.
It's a rhythm I didn't know I wanted, a pace I never understood 'til now.
It's settling down, but not settling for.
It's moving forward in measured steps instead of a jitterbug swing, and keeping time with spoons and oven mitts.
It's the home I always craved, but didn't know how to make 'til now.
It's a furry foot on mine, and my hands in your hands that make me feel small and safe and precious.
It's here and now.
It isn't perfect, or easy all the time.
But it means so very much more than I ever meant before.
To mean something to you.