That is Not my House

That is not my house. Dad, Mom, and I stand in front of a gray building. My house is blue, and it has a rose garden. This building has a tulip garden. Mom says it is a shelter for homeless people. Mom hugs me as we walk towards the gray building. We walk into the building. I see a black doormat. I look around me. That is not my doormat. My doormat is pink, and it has a picture of a dog on it . That is not my table. My table is white. We check in at a desk with a lady behind it. Dad and she talk. A lot. Finally, my family and I go to our room. Mom hugs me again, and all of a sudden, the colours of the building seem brighter. Dad uses a special key to open the door. I look inside. This is not my room. This room has white bedsheets on the beds. My bed has purple bedsheets. That is not my carpet. My carpet is yellow. I miss my little apartment. Dad has brought games to play. We sit on one of the beds and play a game called Uno. Mom and Dad teach me how to play the game. We sit there, laughing, playing, and loving. I forget where I am, and I get a big feeling again. Except this time, it is a burst of thankfulness for my family. Now I know. A house cannot love, but a family can love. A house may not be quiet, but you still have peace. A house may be broken, but family is forever. Now that I am here, it feels like home. A home can be a wooden shack, a nest, a burrow, a tent, or a tree. Anything can be a home. You just have to believe that.