I used to think that home meant my house. But when I was nine years old my house burnt down. I was at soccer practice when I saw my mom and my brother crying on the sidelines. Then, I went to the sidelines for a water break. My brother told me what was going on. ” Our house is on fire! ” When I heard those words come out of his mouth, I fell to my knees, sobbing.
Our community helped my family with donations, including a travel trailer, which became our new house, after staying in a hotel for 3 nights. For the next several months, my home was at a local campground. When I was going home, I wasn’t going to my house, I was going to the campground. This was my new home. When the campground closed, our property was ready to move our trailer to. A couple of years have passed, we are still living in a trailer. Living in a trailer isn’t easy. In the winter our water freezes and it’s a small space to live in. My dad must build the house for us. My mom sadly can’t help anymore because she was diagnosed with cancer and has gone through surgery.
I am grateful to have a place to live, while my dad builds us a new house. So, when I think of what home means to me, I think of my family eating dinner around the table, snuggling on the couch watching tv, and being tucked into bed whether this is in a house, a hotel room or a trailer. It’s my home.