Grade 6



The halls are dark, as I scramble away from the people who’ve kept me trapped too long, hidden away. Guards surround me, telling me that I have to go. No! A guard steps forward. “You have to go back.” His voice is rough, like a chipped stone. They march me back to my cell, and my mind races. I can’t go back! And in my desperation, I find myself thinking of home…

Home has never been a house. I only moved once, when I was younger, out of an apartment, so my parents could start a family. But I’m sure that apartment would feel like home too, if I had grown up there. Home is a feeling. Home’s a place where there’s nothing holding you back, and you can be yourself.

Home will never be furniture or toys, but I feel at home among those things. I feel at home sitting around the dinner table laughing with my family. The table’s there, but it’s not what’s making me feel at home. It’s the feelings of joy, love, and happiness, stuffed into a house that could never contain it, that is home.

A part of feeling at home is reassurance. At home, the family there belongs to me, and I belong to them. Hard things happen, but home will always be waiting with open arms. Some people don’t have that, and that hurts. They don’t have that feeling of warmth wrapping around them like a blanket. They don’t have a home.

I wake from my dream…. I am home. Reassurance, happiness, love and respect surround me. Home is a piece of me I would be broken without. Home’s a beautiful, amazing place, that nothing else can compare to.