Meaning of Home

Dear diary, We walked up to the front porch, my mom, my dad, and me. I rang the too-old doorbell on the red-brick wall, and on the other side of the door, I heard three cousins, running to let us in. They opened the large, white, double doors, letting the summer sunlight into the main foyer. We entered, kicked our shoes into the open closet, and continued. I ran up the worn oak stairs, cousins following close behind. We ran into the middle bedroom, its cream walls glowing with late afternoon summer sun, and us four kids, starting up a game of tag. The smell of warm apple pie floated through the house, un-aware that four hungry children would later devour it. It was August at its finest. As the sun set, we were called to the dining room to eat. The lace curtains were pulled back to let the last of the August sun in. The glass of the windows was rippled and old, but I loved it anyway. We feasted on potatoes and steaks and beets, until there was no more light left. I was sad to leave my home.