At the End of the Day

At the end of the day, what home means to me is quite simple, really. To me, home means the sun smiling through my window with the cardinals, blue jays, and robins singing their song as my brother tells me with the playful impatience of a five-year-old with somewhere to be to “Get up!” It means loving stories at bedtime that always have a happy ending, and playing with my coffee-coloured cats, one who can’t survive without cuddles every second of every day, and one who wouldn’t be caught dead snuggling with a stuffy and is happy (or as happy as a sassy, grumpy cat can be) to hold a grudge. It means reading stories to myself to pass the time from one minute to another. It means waiting for my turn to play on the Nintendo and pitching in on spring cleaning day. It means playing checkers with my dad (who, by the way, is the king of cheesy jokes) and playing outside with my mom (who is a writer, and an awesome one at that). In short, to quote the words on the candle holder that sits on our grandfather clock which my great grandfather made: “You can build a house with wood and stone, but only love can build a home.”