Grade false



Home is a place where memories are born. A place where at two years old, you get a hold of a pink highlighter when your dad is sleeping. The place where you read while your mom sews, and sing and dance while your dad plays the guitar. Where you sing along to your music player, resulting in your brother getting rather irritated. Where countless times your parents tuck you into bed at night. Where in the yard, you soak your brother and friend with a bucket of water and a squirt gun. Where you and a cousin put a feather boa on your brother, in a baby jumper, when you were four. Home is the place where your memories are.