What Home Means to Me
Home is such a strange idea. It really is quite different for everyone and I feel that no one’s definition of home quite explains it accurately. Due to home being such a different concept per person I asked my family members what home meant to them.
For my brother, home means imperfection. The idea came up when he was talking about Tec Voc, a school he could’ve gone to but chose Sisler. He believed Sisler when they said we are one big family. He saw that Tec Voc was trying to be perfect, conveying itself as a perfect school; but he knew he would find perfection in the rough, unpolished and true to the bone Sisler.
My parents, though living with me and my brother home will always be the Philippines. I like that quite a lot; me, my brother, my mom and my dad all share a house but not necessarily a home. My parents’ home is hot, dry, and poor but the thought of it brings constant smiles, it’s amazing. Home to them is where they were born and raised and made all their friends, their home is their past.
What about me? Home to me feels like a little bit of everything. I agree with my parents, in that your past can be your comfort and, by virtue, home. And that a perfect polished home isn’t a home at all. A good combination of all their points is that home is a collection of memories, whether that be memories of family, memories of friends, memories of a park you used to go to or a place you used to eat. Even if those memories aren’t perfect, they’re a place you can always fall back on, memories are home.