The Meaning of Home

To me, home isn’t just bricks with a shingled roof. Not wood floors, not glass windows. Not a marble countertop, not a wooden coffee table. Home to me is my place where my tears are dried, where my laughs are shared, and where I remember our memories are always in its walls. Home is where I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. Where I can sit at the table with family and listen, I don’t have to speak, they don’t either. We can just communicate, with our hearts and our eyes. Home is where I hear the water running, where I hear the oven beep. Home is where I say goodnight, then close my eyes and sleep. Home is where my books are read, sometimes read to me. Home is where I eat my food, or where we share our day. I don’t have to worry about hurtful unkind words, or just someone that disagrees. Because I know that in my home, I have everything I need.