The door to the old home was never locked, and welcomed all who entered right round the clock. The table was set for all to partake, and everyone raved over mother's biscuits and cake. Around that old table my memories fly, as I think of my home with a tear in my eye. I can still hear my mother in her pantry of love, singing a song to her God up above. In a chair in the corner of the old sitting room ,1 can still see my father snoozing at noon. The noise from the kitchen and sweet smelling food never flinched father from his old Scottish mood. The old home is now changed with parents gone, but stories told around that old table still linger on. In the hearts of the children who loved home the best, they remember loving parents in there Heaven of rest. 69