A House Is Different Than a Home

My house isn’t my home, my house is the walls that surround me, my “home” is where I feel safe and can be myself knowing I am loved for who I am. It’s where family memories are made and love and kindness is spread. Home is my bedroom, where I lay in my bed surrounded by soft blue walls and wake up to birds chirping and squirrels rustling in the trees. Home is every night when my family and I sit at the dinner table, and share stories about our day while eating a home cooked meal. Home is my kitchen where my dad taught me how to cook, and my mom taught me how to bake. Home is my living room where me and my family curl up by the fireplace and watch movies every night. Home is where I play board games and build blanket forts. Home is my couch where every Christmas morning we open gifts with my grandparents Home is my backyard where my dad taught me how to shoot a bow and arrow. Home is every fresh summer morning where we sit out and watch the sunrise. Home is my flower garden in the front yard where I relax and watch the hummingbirds fly overhead and sip the sugar water from their feeder. My home holds memories too. From playing with friends and family and having sleepovers. To my basement doorframe where my dad tracks how much I have grown each month. My home also has memories from traveling too, from all over the Caribbean and Canada. Home can be anywhere as long as you have the people who love and care about you. I hope with this essay, Habitat for Humanity can help give a loving family in need a loving home like mine