Every Home is a Home

I woke up in my small, dusty bed shared with my siblings. I feel my small home keeping me safe in its grasp. My home is made of grass and dirt. I am jealous of the people with luxurious houses, but I know that whatever condition my house is in, it’s still my home. I see my older siblings creating small castles out of the soil that lines their small room. I hear fire crackling in mom and dad’s room as they toast marshmallows over the fire. I smell the wistful odor of the outside world drifting into my home. I like the outside, it’s like another, more open home that I move into at night for campouts. I crawl out through the entrance, feeling the dirt drag against my knee like sandpaper. The light outside blinds me, it is a big difference from the inside of my home. Out here, animals are my friends. I love how they move around proudly as they search for food and shelter. I want to be like the animals, proud and strong. My siblings said that mom always told them that having a home is a privilege and that home can be anything, no matter what size or material it is made out of. My siblings come out to join me, their energy infectious as they confidently dance around the field, stepping around large fields of poppies and daisies as they bloom. My siblings are like the animals, they are proud and strong. They don’t care about the condition of their home or how ‘better’ other’s homes are. When I grow up, I wish I could be as strong as my siblings. Having a home gives me and my family strength and I know that my love for my home will never leave.