The Meaning of "Home"

As I sit down at the kitchen table, I can’t help but relax. Whether at the end of a long day, Or rushing before a lacrosse play, I know I’m safe, my worries slack. From the first slurp of soup to the last dish cleaned, I feel a sense of comfort—the peace that I need. The hammer taps and the paint still smells strong, Yet here at this table, I still belong. Planks stacked in corners, tools in a row, Can’t shake the calm that I always know. There was a time I wasn’t quite sure If I was part of something secure. I’d sit and listen, quiet, small, Not knowing if I fit at all. The laughter rose, the stories flew, Of “remember when” — of things they knew. I smiled along, but deep inside, I wondered where my place would hide. But nights turned into months, then years, Shared meals and talks and passing cheers. I learned who reaches for the bread, Who speaks with hands, who bows their head. My voice grew steady, strong, and clear, No longer new — I belonged here. My chair no longer felt on loan, This warmth had slowly become my own. The table holds more than plates and light, More than soup on a chilly night. It holds the comfort of being known, Of roots that quietly have grown. And now when laughter fills the room, It feels like something meant to bloom. Not forced, not fragile, not alone — Just simple, steady, being home.