The Meaning of Home

Home is not a building. Home is a metaphor. Home is where my family lives. Home is where I belong. My home is filled with the sound of music in which I’ve heard a million times before. Each song represents a memory from my childhood. Some songs remind me of the songs we’d listen to on long car rides my family and I take every year just to see my family for one day. Some remind me of when my dad used to take my brother and I to the park on hot summer days when the slides burned our legs when we slid down. My home is where my family is. My mom, who encourages me to do what I love best and turn an idea into a hobby. My dad who taught me not to put up with people’s crap. My brother, who is somehow my greatest enemy and my best friend all at the same time and my dog, who lays on the floor across from me, smiling and wagging his tail, his big brown eyes shining. Oh, how I miss his warm energy that emanates throughout my home after a long day of school away from him. I also remember the moments I hate. When I get in trouble for the silliest of things while my snitch of a brother watches from the sidelines and grins an evil grin, then I sit in my bed and cry my heart out as hatred for my family fills my broken heart. A house is just four walls and a roof. A home is so much more than that.