What Home Means to Me

When someone says the word “Home” some people think of their house or the country they’re from. Personally, I relate to the first option the most and think about the house I grew up in, the place that is filled with memories and experiences from my childhood. Say, you and your family were stuck in a car. You’re all together, but that car isn’t your home. That car isn’t the place where you and your family can sit down and talk over dinner. It lacks the warmth and comfort that your house has. The car is missing personal memories. Or, if you went on vacation with your family. You left the resort to go to the beach, and when it’s time to go back, what would your family say? “Kids! Let's go back home!”? No! Of course not! My parents would say it’s time to go back to the hotel, not home. Whenever I come back home from a place, there are certain things I smell, hear, and feel. I can hear my dad at his online work meetings. I can feel my cat rubbing up against me. I can smell my Nani cooking different foods. A hotel, a school, or a library doesn’t have those things. In my house, we have celebrated birthdays, hosted thanksgiving, had sleepovers, and celebrated anniversaries. The memories that lie in the walls of my house are irreplaceable. It’s a safe place where I can be myself. That is what turns my house into my home. A home is a right that everyone should have. All people deserve a place that is safe and filled with love and family. Not everyone has a place called home but I wish everyone could.