Home Remebers

You don’t remember, do you. You talk about home like it’s just the place you sleep, but home is stitched into every moment you didn’t realize was becoming a memory. You don’t remember the field behind the park, how you and your friends ran until the world blurred, until your shadows stretched long across the grass and the sky echoed with your laughter long after you stopped running. You don’t remember the beach last summer, how the cold water kissed your skin and you pretended it didn’t sting. How the waves chased you back to shore and you swore they were alive, laughing with you, not at you. How the sand clung to your ankles like it wanted to follow you home. You don’t remember falling asleep in the backseat, the hum of the road beneath you, the stars smearing across the window like someone had painted the night just for you. You don’t remember being carried inside, your head resting on a shoulder that felt like the whole world holding its breath just to keep you safe. You don’t remember the little things — the grass stains, the messy drawings, the way your friends shouted your name like it was the best word they knew. But home does. Because home is a sanctuary of memories: it remembers the stars you used to wish on, the echo of the dreams you almost let go, and the ghost of every version of you that refused to fade. Thank you habitat for humanity for creating opportunities That will become moments That will become memories That will become home.