Homes. I don’t know where to start. My little brother accepts what he has. “A roof over our head, somewhere to curl up in a little ball all cozy, that’s all I need.” He would say. It sounds so stupid! Yet it still makes me ponder. Wonder, I do. I wonder if he’s right. I ponder so much everything around me becomes a blur as I imagine having a hazardous place to live. Like a chicken coop or something. Just then I notice a book. “What does it mean to be Home?” I picked it up and started to read it, curiously. “What does it mean to have a Home? By: Alexander Hamilton. My home is the cinnamon spice scents, my oak walls. My comfort in silk sheets and my fluffed pillows. It is where I learned to walk and talk. On colder nights, it only takes the sweet cozy memories to warm me back up. I quickly closed the book when I heard many quick, noisy yet light footsteps coming my direction. Suddenly stopped and then poorly done sneaky shuffles. And surprise surprise, my little brother tried to spy on me. “Oh, come on James.” I said unamused. “You’re too noisy, you could never successfully spy on me.” I rolled my eyes as he ran off smiling. I put the book back and never really read it again. I can put together how it would end though. And ever since then, things were never the same. I’m 26 now. Ah, I’m rambling again. You, reading this might already know the meaning to this. “We should be grateful that we have safe homes” or perhaps you might think this is meant to resemble the meaning of home. “The truth is, those are both correct. To this day, I teach people the importance of homes. Not as a job or hobby, but to teach young minds to be grateful for everything good in their lives. I hope you enjoyed this story.