Home is Where the Hamster is

Home to me is the creamy carpet that prevents me from having a pet dog. It’s thatha’s footstool that was so torn and tattered old drapes had to be used to patch it. Home is the teepee that can’t contain me anymore. Home, the clock that exasperates me because I know it’s two minutes late, home is the marker ink spill under my table that I tried to hide but didn’t succeed, home’s the beanbag that lost all its beans when I wasn’t looking. Home, that’s the skipping rope that all my art is pinned to, and our robot Alexa that pronounces thatha’s name weirdly. My home, the huge dollhouse that didn’t fit under the Christmas tree and the junk room that is so overcrowded all devices lose internet there. Home is people in the neighbourhood saying, “Maia, I’ve got an extra bag of Halloween treats for you.” Home is where the hamster (spoiled with treats) is. I am grateful for a home. I know some people don’t have homes, and I am lucky to have one. I passed a tent city one day. I hope the people living there, and all other people who need homes will get what they need. I hope in those homes their kids will be able to experience spilling marker ink on their very own carpet, and I hope they’ll do all the things I’ve done in my house. I hope those kids’ parents will be able to patch a footstool of their very own, and I hope they’ll accomplish everything else my family has done in our home. I have a feeling of safety, comfort, peace, security and placement in my house, and I hope that is what they will feel too, for that is the meaning of home.