A Place Called Home

The old wooden porch creaked beneath my feet as I rocked back and forth in my grandmother's favourite chair. The sweet smell of apple pie drifted through the screen door, mixing with the afternoon breeze that is rustling the wind chimes my Dad had hung last summer. Home isn’t just the red brick house with the new windows on Maple Street. It is the collection of memories that fills every corner – the height marks penciled on the kitchen door frame that reminds me about the time I passed my past sister, the dent in the wall from when you moved the furniture down the stairs, and the plant room that has like 30 plants in it. I smiled as I heard the familiar sound of my dog Cindy's paws clicking against the hardwood floors inside. This was the same sound I'd heard every day for the past 9 years after school. I couldn't predict the exact moment she would push through the screen door and rest her head on my lap, right when I thought she would not. The neighbourhood kids playing ball hockey across the street, their laughter floating up to my perch on the porch. The neighbour's sprinkler next door made its familiar tick-tick-tick sound, and Shelly waved from her garden down the street. This is home – not just the building, but the feelings it held. It was where my family gathered for holiday dinners, where I felt safe during thunderstorms, and where I could always be myself. As the sun began to set, painting the sky in beautiful oranges and pinks, I knew there was no place I'd rather be than right here, in this perfect little corner of the world I called home.