What Home Means to Me

When I moved into this new home, it felt strange, it felt new. For then, it was just an old, dusty shack; I did not yet realize how much it would mean to me. One day, when I was walking home from school, I saw a young girl sitting on the sidewalk. She had mud and silt all over her face. The child looked fragile, like glass that would shatter very easily. It looked like she had no home, and I felt sorry for the girl. With no one to care for her when she felt sad, With no one to speak to when she had something important to say, And with nowhere to go when she wanted to feel safe. I soon realized that I should feel grateful for my family. For my life. For my home. My home is where I can laugh when my sister recites a silly story, Where I can have fun while playing fetch with my dog, And where I can bond with my family while playing card games. Here, I am safe from the bad things in the world. Where when I feel happy, my home makes me feel happier by reminding me every day that I am fortunate enough to have a family and a home. Where when I am worried or low, because I have to deliver an essay in front of the whole school, or because my best friend just moved away, I start to think about how lucky I am, And that helps make me feel better. I feel lucky to have a home. Just remember, you are very, very lucky to have a home. Also, just remember, Some children aren’t safe from the bad things in the world. Just remember. And feel grateful. To have a home.