Where memories are made

Home is a very vague term but for me, it means cooking hot soup alongside my mom or sitting in my basement gently pushing fabric through a noisy sewing machine at eight o’clock at night. It means riding the warm, summer, Felker's Falls mountain bike trails with my dad, or swimming laps in the cold, chlorine filled, Valley Park pool. It’s coming home late at night, covered in dry clay after spending the evening at Locke Street pottery studio. It’s setting up my paint easel in front of the TV, and the feeling of the first and last brush strokes on the canvas. It’s crowded, Christmas dinner table with all my loving family, and three different conversations going on at once. It’s my sister and me, watching TV at night while my parents reminisce and converse about the day. While my home is not big, not fancy, and often a disaster, it's my home, and the place where my most precious memories have been made.