Memories of Home

My mom wakes my sister and I with a clap of her hands. A loving smile illuminates her face as she shouts, “Waffles.” We race down the stairs in our pyjamas where the gold-covered tasty treasure lies. I could already taste the syrup and honey as my mouth watered, enjoying the morning bustle with every bite. This is home. My turtle, Master Oogway, basks in my backyard as the sun shines high in the sky. The wind whistles in our ears as the blades of grass dance with it. My grandma harvests our garlic, and my grandpa swings on our rocking chair, enjoying the gentle breeze. This is home. My sister and I sit in the living room as my grandma plays the piano. We hum along to the music as she narrates her culture, hardships, and childhood, which all pour into her music. The piano is our storyteller sharing melodic memories through each note. This is home. Our feet hit the gravel path heading to our usual bench. “Last one there is a rotten egg,” my dad shouts. With all the strength in me, I pump my arms and pass the blur of green from the Douglas Fir trees and small shrubs. I slam into the bench, panting. My dad barrels down beside me as I stare at Fraser River. Our island stands in the middle, like a secret waiting to be found. We hear the waves crashing against the rocks as the pitter-patter of the rain begins. I smile and think that “Raincouver” lives up to its name. “Time to go home,” my dad says. I nod but think, we already are. This is home.