The Meaning of Home

A house is not a home. A house is a place you go to when your day is done. It’s an object, like any other thing. Like a supermarket or a convenience store, but a home is different. It’s a place you go to after school or work, but you also get to talk about your day. The ups and the downs free from judgment. If home was a smell, it would smell like a pleasant aroma, like a field of roses, rustling in the cool morning breeze during the hot summer days. Like the smell of a new open book turning to a new chapter on page one. If home was a feeling, my home feels like a warm blanket beside a fireplace, drinking a hot cocoa after playing in the snow for hours, or like what I said about the scent, it can be a cold wind breeze in the scorching hot summer. If home was a sound, it would sound like the waves crashing against the sea shore as you breathe in the summer breeze. If home was a taste, it would taste like my favorite food or an ice water as I swallow it after as if I was working in the blazing hot sun for hours and hours. If home was a view, I would see a big tree. This big tree is my home, and on that tree there are three lilacs and a daisy; the three lilacs are my parents and I, and the daisy is my dog with the tree holding us all as we and the tree grow by the second as if our love grows by the second, but not only that, but the seed planted at the bottom of the tree, the foundation is the love.