My home belongs to me. My home belongs to the people who care and love me. My home is not a picture, place or even an item. Home is the place I laugh and cry, whisper and shout. The place I set up my tree and blow out my candles.
This marvelous feeling comes to me when I’m home. I’m home when I can dance. If I can dance freely with no care, I’m home. When my family comes together for life and death, I am home. If I feel love and surrounded by care, I am home. When I am warm and cozy with a calm, sweet, little dog I am home. My home is where my memories are made.
With every passing day, month, year and every second, minute, and hour, I grow with my home. I have moved and crossed the country, my home came with me. Every day I go to school, and I know my home comes with me. It will come with me every step I take if I am loved and surrounded by people I care about. The nice cozy house on the corner of a small town, with an atmosphere of joy and love, is where the house I with the greatest family lives. My house is where I eat, sleep, and laze around, but my home is where I dream, cherish, and think. My home is where my memories are made.
The shape or size of my house does not matter to me. It can be an apartment on the bottom of a hill or a million dollar mansion looking over the sea. My house is neither of those things, but my house is as priceless as the family living in it. My home is where my memories are made.