A home is not a house, it’s a feeling

The sun rises and shines through my bedroom windows, its glare waking me. I get changed before running to the kitchen, where a delicious aroma awaits me. My mother was making French toast. I heard footsteps behind me. I quickly spun around to see my father going down to the basement. “Where are you going?” I asked curiously, gazing at him suspiciously. “To fix the computer.” He said, continuing to step down the stairs. Suddenly, my stomach began to rumble. As I returned to the kitchen, my mother put a slice of French toast on a plate and softly pushed it towards me. I pulled out a chair and then dug into the delicious dish. “Where are my brothers?” I asked when I finished eating. “Asleep.” Said my mother. “I don’t think we should wake them up.” I put on my shoes and walked to my friend’s house. I rang his doorbell. “DING DONG!” I wait patiently until he opens the door. “Race you to my backyard!” I yell out at him, as I jump off his front steps. I cut through the shortcut between the pine trees, beating my friend. I slumped on the ground, picking at the bright green grass. My friend sits down next to me. I turn to face him and grin. “Beat you.” I spoke. He frowns, then laughs. I say goodbye to my friend as I take out my bike and begin to ride around the neighborhood. I hear birds singing, see the bridge that goes over the local river, and can smell fresh fruit that is growing in the neighbors’ garden. The gentle breeze blows through my hair as I return home. A home is not a house, it’s a feeling.