Location

Location; it matters so much, or perhaps so little.  
I love my Grandma and Grandpa's house.  To step through the door into that familiar abode is to enter comfort, security, and love; to be appreciated and accepted for all that I am. 

Grilled cheese sandwiches (with perfectly melted cheese), comfortable furniture (with a cozy blanket neatly folded across the back of every seat), and pictures of family (a frame for every grandchild) adorn the walls and appease my senses with familiarity.

I know I am in a place where I am wanted and loved.

Is it the house that promotes a sense of belonging?  The wood, windows, and shingles that embrace me upon crossing the threshold?

No. 

A museum without art is a building with awkwardly arranged walls and not nearly enough seating.  A home without people is mearly a roof under which to store things.

It is my Grandparents that make their house special.  They offer the sandwiches, embrace me with love, and attentively listen to the stories of my life.  They are the reasons I frequently long to go to that wood structure where I am always utterly overwhelmed with warmth and fuzziness.

Geographical location of these two whom I treasure is meaningless.  Even if they had no stove on which to make grilled cheese sandwiches, my visits would be no less frequent.  I love them more than is logical for the frail human condition.

The people are what give a place its meaning.  Without them, a house is only organized space to hide from the rain.