My Story of Home

Home isn’t the roof that shelters you, or the address you remember. Home isn't just the floors that hear my footsteps. Home is the memories I keep with the people I am with and the laughter we share together. Home is like a soft exhale or a big book of memories. It is where I find calm, even when the world is crazy and scary. My mom tells stories of when she was little, it makes me wonder about what I will tell when I grow up. My home feels like being wrapped up in a warm blanket when I listen to the rain pitter-pattering on my window on its way down to the ground. Home can be out in the rain where the cold forest air pinches my cheeks and where I hear the robins chatter and see the deer frolic beyond the frost tipped grass, or the movie nights with my family where the soft smell of popcorn lasts in the air. If my home had a heart beat mine would sound like bike wheels turning, birds singing songs of the past, and my mom telling me she loves me. So home is not just a building, home is the feelings I feel, but not alone, like the footsteps I follow in my heart.