2,1 “DRRING BING!” Goes the middle school bell. I grab my book bag and scooter and leap out the door. It’s a Friday, everyone’s rushing through the crowded hallways to get home. I can’t wait to burst through that door and flop on my fluffy bed. I get pushed, shoved and tripped. My scooter bangs against a herd of lockers. I’m almost there, I see the door, a few more steps. “Uh oh ah ah whoah!”
The howling wind pounds against my face. I grip my grips so hard, my hands start to throb. I see the blinkering stop lights up ahead. Then, I stomp on my brake as I pull up to the stop light. I bolt across the street. Then, I burst into my house, have a chat with my mom and family, get a snack then, trudge up the stairs and flop on my bed.
My home is a place where I feel safe and comfortable. The people I love are in my home. All my special things are in my home, especially the things that mean a lot to me. I’m very fortunate to have a home, a lot of people don’t have a home and don’t have all their special things. They might be lucky to have one or two special things or personal belongings. “A house is not a home, when your loved ones are gone.” –
In 2015, many Syrians had to leave their homes because of war in their country. Lots of them were separated and had to leave their families behind. Some of them live in houses in our city, others live in cities around us, for example Saint John and Moncton. Syrian’s have found houses all across our country. I say “house” because it’s not really there “home” Why? Because there “home” and family and probably many of their special things are back in Syria.
So what makes a home, a home? To me, my home is a place where my family is, where I can be comfortable and where toys, special and personal belongings are. Also, my home’s a place where I am loved, and there are lots of memories. Wouldn’t it be nice, if everyone had a “home” instead of just a “house”?