Home, To Me

Home. A place of empathy, chaos, happiness, love, generally feelings. Sometimes it’s a building, a palace or a space you can simply call your habitat. It’s a place of safety, to me, it’s a dome of protection. I faced a building, a dark structure, gray and gloomy, cracked, or I would face a patch of dirt, even worse. But with a little sweat, and a bit of ingenuity, it would be a home that stood tall, proud, with no cracks, dimly colored walls, nothing in our safe place from nature’s unpredictable rages, from storms that rumble when the sky grows dim. And that’s just what I did. To me, it’s a place where I’m protected by walls and a roof that I grow to love. I feel it’s a place that my family shares their feelings with one another. Like when one is sad, we feel empathy for them. And sometimes home isn’t just love and happiness, when somebody is angry, their rage spreadslike a wildfire. That’s part of life, part of growing up, life isn’t always happy. But when joy unfurls through the structure, everyone is content, playing, laughing, singing, and going about their day with a smile across their face. People spend time together, all inside a structure that we call home. When the inhabitants of a house go gloomy, so does a house. And when the people are bright, so is the house. Love. I said the same way I did for home. You become attached to your place, because you love what’s inside. When I come home, sometimes we’re a bit down, gloomy, but most of the time my brother and sister come and hug me, because they’re younger, and my dog barks excitedly, wagging her tail, back and forth in a blur of golden apricot. A small smog of steam rises through the air; I sniff, a wonderful smell greets my nostrils, my parents cooking say a quick “hi” before returning to the pan. Home is to me, not just a structure, but a place where I can share my feelings, a place where I can feel safe, and where love in my family thrives. That’s what home means to me.