A House is Not a Home

Home is my favorite place. It can be anywhere in the world, with anyone in the world, but it’s always where you’re happy. Home is where you make memories with your family. Speaking of family, my grandpa always used to say this expression before he passed away. “Today’s moments are tomorrow’s memories.” And it’s so true! Like one time my older sister “accidentally” threw slime at the ceiling, and the purple stain is still there. As soon as I enter my home, I feel the warmth of the heater, and my mom comes to greet me, though she’s usually on the phone. Then my Dad hugs me, and as he kisses my forehead, the prickly hairs from his beard tickle me. My brother is certainly on his phone, though he still greets me. My sister is most likely on her computer, playing games. But all of that doesn’t matter, because I’m home. Even if I’m in Mexico or Australia, none of that matters, because I’m home. I love being home because there’s a certain warmth that fills me every time I walk in. I don’t care how many places you’ve either been to, or lived in, or summered in, or wintered in, but to call it home, you must have your family with you, and that’s all that matters.