Home, Happiness, and Memories

Home. A word that means so much more than it seems. A home could be in many colors, but mine is mostly white and brown. A home is a place where people might get mad but still care about you. My home smells like oranges and apples because of a fruit bowl in the kitchen, a place with slightly cold white tiles, light brown wood, and a counter that I love to sit on. Home to me is the place where I grew up, a place filled with memories. A home isn’t just walls or furniture; it’s about the people inside. Homes can have brothers, sisters, parents, and grandparents. I have two siblings who might be annoying, but at least I know that I care about them and they care about me. My home wouldn’t be the same without my siblings, too empty, too quiet. Something special to me is a wall in my house. It might sound useless to mention, as it doesn’t go along with what I've been saying, but my sister spent days hand-painting a fully black tree on it. Nailed into the branches of the wall-tree are pictures, photos of my family’s earliest and latest memories. Memories are precious, unique, just one of a kind. So, that concludes my essay: Home is all about family, memories, and just caring.