The Heart of My Home

The Heart of My Home The wood in our fireplace doesn’t just burn; it pops and snaps like it’s trying to tell a secret. It’s the first thing my dad does when he gets home from work. He says the fire is the "battery" of the house, and as soon as it’s going, the whole living room feels like a giant, warm hug. My brother, Isaac, already has his favorite spot right on the rug where heat warms up his hands after building a snowman with bare hands. My house always has a specific smell that makes me feel safe. It’s a mix of pine woodsmoke and whatever my parents are cooking in the kitchen. Tonight, the air is filled with the scent of slow-cooker beef stew and fresh, crusty bread. When the oven timer dings, it’s like a bell at a party. We don’t eat in front of the TV; we sit at a big wooden table and talk about the funniest things that happened at school until our stomachs hurt from laughing. After the dishes are cleared, the music starts. We have an old record player in the corner, and my sister always picks something upbeat. We usually end up having a "kitchen disco" while we dry the dishes. It’s impossible to be grumpy when you’re dancing with a dish towel to classic hits. As the night winds down, we all settle on the couch. The fire has turned into glowing red embers, and the house is quiet and peaceful. This is what joy feels like to me. It isn't just about the stuff we have; it’s about the love, the good food, and the perfect soundtrack that makes our house a real home. THE END