My home

To me, a home doesn't need to be a house, or even the place you live, only a place to love and be loved. My home smells like fresh grass or damp leaves after a storm, or the bitter smell of nothing when winter covers everything in a fresh blanket of snow, which makes me so glad I have a warm home to rely on when it gets cold. I can't imagine what it would be like to endure the cold without a warm place to stay. My home tastes like the food I’m so lucky to have and have enough of. It also tastes familiar and sweet, like the cereal I have for breakfast every morning. My home looks like my brother reading by the tall lamp on our small couch, and my family watching thunderstorms from the front porch. It also looks like my dad playing guitar and my family singing along. My home feels like a soft pillow against my face and warm blankets I can burrow under on cold nights. I'm so grateful to have a warm bed to sleep in. I feel full and free when I walk into my home; I feel much better when I'm contained in the same walls as the people I love and trust. My home is the place I can come back to and be myself in. My home is around me and in me. My home sounds like my siblings laughing, the kettle telling my parents to get their coffee, and my parents telling me to get out of bed in the morning, which I do very reluctantly. I think everybody should have things like these to rely on and come back to. Everyone needs a home.