My home has always been a place full of love when I need it and forgiveness when I make mistakes. It has been a happy place and sometimes a sad one, but I have always felt safe. I have hidden from embarrassment and shame here, my parents have recorded my growth on the kitchen doorway, and the dents in the walls all tell a story. The broken ceiling light in the living room reminds me of when my dad thought it would be funny to kick a box, but ended up smashing a light instead. The window screen is ripped from the many times my cat tried to climb it, and the peeled paint in my room is from the pictures that I have put up over the years.
In the spring of 2020 my home took on many new roles and meanings. It became a classroom, an art studio, a music studio, my mom’s grade 5 classroom , a roller-blading track, a work-out gym for my sister and brother, a movie theatre, and the set of a cooking show, just to name a few. I built many different blanket and pillow forts to have privacy for my class Zoom meetings. My sister and I had slumber parties and stayed up late together. My siblings and I learned to bake and cook new recipes, we became pretty good at dancing, and we even created our very own spy movie. Most of all, we tried to share this space without bothering each other too much. This wasn’t very successful, as my parents pointed out almost every day. Our dog was delighted with having her family at home full-time, but our cat was not very pleased at all.
Through it all, this home is still a place where I can be myself without judgement when I am frustrated that I can’t see my friends, or when I‘m feeling silly. A home is more than just walls and a roof. A home is not truly made by wood and nails, but it is made from the memories people make in it.