Home

Home. A place that I can call safe. The air filled with conversation. The smell of freshly baked sourdough bread. Looking at an extremely intense risk game between my sister and my uncle. I feel the twists of a rubix cube in my hand trying to find a way to solve it. The taste of strong butter on warm bread is so intricate and delightful while still being basic. This is where I call home. Home. Where I can go outside and smell the familiar(?) horse poop blended with the fresh clean air. I hear Coyotes howling in packs. I see the horse barn across the street, the horse galloping in a circle. I feel the plastic mesh of a trampoline underneath my body. I can taste the smell of nature at its finest. This is where I call home. Home. A city that I belong to. The outdoor rinks for me and my friend to go and skate on with frigid winds brushing along my face. The talks that I have with my mom in the car. I can smell the gasoline from the cars burning fuel. The taste of a cheese tea biscuit from Tim Hortons gives my taste buds a treat. I see the tall building in the core of my city taller than I could see. This is where I call home. Home. A province that will protect me. I see the Canadian flag standing tall. The feel of a loonie rolling around in the palm of my hand. The smell of fresh poutine fries with gravy and cheese curds, the taste unbelievable, melting in my mouth. This is home.