A True Home Far Away

A True Home Far Away Every single person in the whole world has a different definition of home. For some people it can mean a place special to them or to some it can mean someone you can trust. Whoever you are you know what home is to you. For me home is somewhere you know that you belong, somewhere where you can be you and not have to worry about what others think. Even if you move across the street or move to a new continent you’ll always know what home is deep down. But sometimes you have to learn how to love somewhere. Even the people who are homeless can learn to love a place but they shouldn’t have to because everyone should have somewhere they can feel fully loved, secure and respected. Even something as simple as a reassuring tap on someone’s shoulder can make their day. Home doesn’t mean a giant mansion with luxurious furnishings and a pool, it means somewhere you can feel safe with your family (and dog if you have one). Homes range from little summer cottages to humongous condos along the highway with cars zooming by or somewhere just in between like my house. My house is on Richardson Street in Fairfield. Not too many cars go by but when I hear one coming I try to guess what colour it’s going to be, but most of the time I’m wrong. Most of all I like my bedroom. In the morning I open my eyes and squint at the bright light peeking through my blinds. And somehow when we built our house I got the room with a mountain view or as my dad says, “ mountain glimpses.” I guess he’s right you can only see the snow capped peaks, but still. And on crisp cool winter mornings all the rooftops are softly coated in glimmering white frost. This is what home means to me.