My Home

Home is with my Grandpa. When I talk with him, I feel calm, as if I’m Mario and I have an invincibility star. I feel like there is a bubble, inches thick, surrounding me like I am a baby bird in an egg. When he talks my head turns like a flower turning to the sun. He has told me stories about a lot of stuff, like firecrackers, my dad, basketball, dogs, my great-grandpa and baseball. Those stories shine to me like a light in the dark. When he tells me a story I feel like there is a string connecting me to generations. One time he came to my house in Edmonton and when he got out of his car he stepped in dog poop. We joked about that for the whole week he was with us. He also told me stories about other times he stepped in dog poop. Those memories are like gold to me, the light of my day. Another time I went to his house in Regina and while me and my cousin, Milly, wrestled and played with Hugo, his dog, he told us stories about my dad and his cat. I see my grandpa a lot and we always have fun. Once, we painted a deformed pepper that looked like a stick with all its knobs and bumps. We printed the shape from a print making box that I got for my birthday. The present looked wonky, like a box with random lumps. When I opened it, I said, “Grandpa, what is this?" He replied, “read the label." Everyone laughed so hard we cried. We spent the whole week making prints of Hugo, random swirls and lines, stars and team logos. My grandpa is a lot of things, an artist, a storyteller and many more. But to me he is my home.