THE MEANING OF HOME

Home is the soft, quiet drip of the morning dew sliding off the trees behind my house in the springtime. It is the crisp red and orange leaves on the trees outside my window in the autumn, the days getting ever shorter. It is the sound of the oak trees in the front of my house violently creaking, the cruel winter wind shoving past them like a freight train. Home is the scent of my mom baking her coconut/banana muffins, the sweet scent drifting all the way up to my bedroom from the kitchen. It is the peaceful sound of the chickadees chirping that I can sometimes hear when I press my ear to my bedroom window in the morning. It is the presence of my two beautiful cats. They are dead now, but they are still with me. They always will be.