A home: More than a house

Down on the streets, a man wearing a dirty green coat, covered with a blanket, playing the violin. Face scared, long hair with a breeze of white across the grey curls: red eyes, burnt nose and a smile on Tom’s face. In the afternoon, a wealthy teenager named Drake walks up to Tom. Drake starts listening to Tom playing the violin, and about a minute later, Drake starts talking to Tom. “Ayy weirdo, how you land up on da streets like dat, you don’t even have a place to call home,” says Drake ​​nastily. “ Why don’t you tell me what home is?” asked Tom. “ I don’t wanna, and if you think you are so smart, why don’t you explain what home is to meh punk? “Sure,” calmly replies Tom. “Home is a feeling, not a place. A house is a place; home is a feeling. I might not have a house. However, I am home. At this spot right here, on this grass patch adjacent to the sidewalk, is where I feel at home. When I am here, I feel at home. It is perfect for me; I get scenery, I get to see cars, I get to look at the stars in the sky. A house is not home, but your feeling of home could be in your house. A home is a home because it is you. This grass patch is me. I have lived here for more than two years, and I have made memories of this place. I play the violin here, and I remember many people who walked by and gave money.” states Tom. “I am so sorry for being how I was; thanks to you, I know what home is,” says Drake. “I’m glad you understand now,” replies Tom.