I entered the house, my muddy shoes dirtying the doormat. The aroma of freshly cooked meals overwhelmed me, and immediately my stomach rumbled. How did I not realize I was this hungry? Or did my grandma’s cooking just hypnotize one into eating it? I’d have to ask her later.
My sister tumbled down the hall, and engulfed me in a hug. She looked up at me and grinned. She was the human embodiment of happiness. My mom, who was dusting off the framed photos on the wall, smiled sweetly. Whenever I came back, she’d be cleaning and dusting, but always had time to enjoy the evening with her two daughters. She was busy as a bee.
As my grandma called out, “Dinner’s ready!” I tossed my bag to the floor, and sped to the dining room, where a bowl of fresh rice awaited me. Multiple dishes of vegetables and meat sat at the middle of the table, steaming. The smell was absolutely delectable.
I winced as I stepped on a lego, holding my foot close to my chest. My sister left those all over the house, and it sure did hurt. She’d apologize profusely, but never really stopped jumbling her toys everywhere.
Home was, strangely, the place I loved best. There were the ups, and the downs, one of them being having a sore foot after stepping on a piece of lego. If you thought that I’d hate it, you’re clearly mistaken. It’s a place where you can cry and bawl and complain about the littlest things, and not be disliked, because my family members all had a heart of gold. Because you know what they say,
There’s no place like home.