What Home Means To Me

I wake up to the warm sun shining on my face, and my silky sheets on my skin. There’s a bitter taste in my mouth and a hum of music filling the air. My cool toes are sticking out of my blanket. My home almost feels as if I am bundled together as a burrito. My home is full of memories pilling on top of each other. To me that is home. But to others, that could be a shop full of bold trinkets, or a school, wild and energetic. Maybe an apartment with dense walls and dusty corners. Or a silent library full of books and familiar scents of paper. Home could be a cabin in a damp, dim forest, or a grassy peaceful park. A home could be a lake, glistening on its surface, and its waves slamming on the shore. A home could be as small as a garden or as big as Grouse Mountain. A home is so much more than a house.