Home is Familiar
My home. My house. My roof. My walls. My rooms. My food. My water. My family. My happy place. I think. I think about home. My home feels great to live in. The rushing water, the talking vents. The creaks and clonks of those running steps and loud stomps. Down and up the stairs they go… and go… and go… and go… and go. But home is not an object. Home isn’t always a house. Home is feelings. The feelings you get when the place you are in is familiar.
But I think. I think about others. Other’s don’t have what I have. Other’s don’t have homes. Other’s don’t have families. I think. I think about unhappy homes. Others don’t have what I have. I have home. I have house. I have roof. I have walls. I have rooms. I have food. I have family. I have a happy place. I have a place to think. I have more.
But home is not an object. Home could be a house. A house with creaky floorboards, footsteps swiftly running, and lights beaming faintly. Or a park with birds sweetly tweeting, swings loudly swinging, and sunlight shining naturally. Home is familiar.