The Meaning of Home

As I was coming to my new house, I was both excited and scared. Will it be like our old home? Will it be a happy, safe place where I can be myself? The butterflies danced in my stomach. I guess I will find out soon. “Here we are!” Said mom. The butterflies immediately stopped as I looked and saw the house. It was a beautiful front yard. There was a garden surrounded by stones where we could plant flowers, and there was a stone walkway to the big, open, front porch. I ran and peered through the window. It looked dark and empty. The butterflies were back. I frowned and pulled the door open.Immediately I was consumed in a wave of coldness, which brought the dusty, dry scent. Now grasshoppers accompanied the butterflies. “Mom? It looks kind of dark. And cold. And creepy. And-” “Oh come on. It’ll be much better once we clean it, open the blinds, and put the furniture. Once we get settled and the whole family’s here, it’ll feel more like home.” Mom reasoned. “But will it?” I argued. “Because right now, it’s really creeping me out.” “Trust me on this one kiddo. It’ll get better.” And it did. As usual, mom was right. We opened the blinds, so it was bright and colourful, we cleaned it, so it was becoming more and more like home. But it still wasn’t right. The furniture came, but it still wasn’t right. And then, my dog and my little sister came from my Grandma’s house, because my mom thought it would be too chaotic with EVERYONE in the house. I watched my sister giggle and bounce around with the dog, and I knew, I just knew, this was home.