A very close friend of (or, we can say, maybe even part of) my family has passed away recently. He was an engineer, one of the best. He had a small workshop and office set up on the lower floor of his house, working with his wife and about four to six people and lived on the upper floor. I've occasionally worked for him and his wife, mainly on spare afternoons every summer. Most of the time we didn't finish until it got dark. I even slept in the office a few times.
There was this one time when we finished work at about 9 p.m, maybe even a bit later. We locked the workshop and realized that we are not only totally spent, but also starving. We haven't actually had anything to eat since lunch. So we went up the stairs and cooked up some beans with onions and watched some TV until it got REALLY late. Even had a beer. That was the moment when that place became something more than a workplace to me. It became like a second home. This was the picture I had in my mind when writing this song.
And a few months after I have published it, I have realized that there is another layer of meaning:
Time is always passing. The clock keeps ticking.
We can be tangled up in our lives, our work, our passions, our hobbies; we might have a place we call home, a family we love, friends we care for. But there can always come a time when a change happens - be it conscious or deliberate - after which we might never go back to the place we were before.
We can only have the memory of it. In this case, this is my Memory of Home.