The Meaning Of My Home

Home for me is the jade green walls in the living room, and the deep brown trim. The cat always draped across the maroon couch like an extra blanket, a goofy grin spread across her mustached face. The few keys on the piano that are rough since there’s no ivory plating, and the guitars hanging on the wall, most of which were made by my grandfather. Home is the piled clothes and aroma of mud in the porch, where food sits that needs to cool. The dining room has a lingering scent of wood, mustard yellow walls and windows with indoor plants beneath. There's a picture sitting by the table of my cat. Across the table there’s a window, the cat’s spot for saying either “I want to come in” or, “Can you come out?” The tattered wallpaper of my kitchen with shapes that I find looks like a sheep, a bull, a vulture, and of course the goblin. The counter’s cupboard stuffed to the brim with mitch-matched pots and pans. My room has wallpaper that’s faded yellow-white with vines and berries, my bed is a mattress on the floor with a lamp nearby. The floorboards are cracked, and socks cling to the wood desperately. My dresser is brown with earrings and stuffed animals spread across. My brother’s room has clothes strewn across the floor, with art plastered to his blue walls. Artifacts across the dresser. My parent’s bedroom has a white floor with ash leaves. Their bed is big with a mirror leaning against the chimney. The dressers are covered in jewelry and clothing. The basement is a dark, dank hole in the ground . . . let’s leave it at that. For me home is comforting, if not perfect it’s my home from the very top to the dark, dreary bottom.