Status: Finished
Home
Home
“Home is where the heart is,” a common, overused phrase. It’s the phrase that little old ladies have embroidered on couch pillows. Home is the place for children’s laughter, the smell of homemade cookies, and the taste of pot-roast for dinner. Home is a place that children and adults alike feel safe and cozy. But, what if a house isn’t a home?
“Home” was always a foreign concept to me as a child. I was bounced from house to house so often I never knew where I belonged. Each house held something different for me. Each house held different sentiments. Each house helped me become the person I am today.
My mother’s house was sandy floors, boxed dinners, and the smell of vodka that lingered on the couch no matter how many times it was sprayed with Febreze. My sisters and I would lie in the same twin sized mattress and tell each other about how we wouldn’t stay here forever, the second we turned 18 we would run away to someplace exciting. My mother’s house was impromptu dance parties at three in the morning, and going to get ice-cream for dinner. There are no rules.
My Father’s house is the smell of gasoline, the sounds of a marriage at its breaking point, and a toy littered living room. My oldest brother taught me how to fight at a very young age. He told me I had to fight to survive, he was right. We stayed up late, after our parents went to sleep. We talked late into the night by the light of a TV on mute. We were scared to sleep. My Father’s house is scraped knees and chin bruises, its climbing on the roof at midnight to escape in the fantasy world of a book. We helped each other survive.
My Grandmas house is the smell of fresh baked brownies, the laughter of a massive family having a game night, a clean and safe place. My grandma did her best to care for me. The carpet was soft and the sunlight always shone through the windows. My Grandmas house was always my favorite place to be. It was fresh sheets, homecooked meals, and the warmth of a fireplace. Could this be what a home is?
“Home” was always a foreign concept to me as a child. I was bounced from house to house so often I never knew where I belonged. Each house held something different for me. Each house held different sentiments. Each house helped me become the person I am today.
My mother’s house was sandy floors, boxed dinners, and the smell of vodka that lingered on the couch no matter how many times it was sprayed with Febreze. My sisters and I would lie in the same twin sized mattress and tell each other about how we wouldn’t stay here forever, the second we turned 18 we would run away to someplace exciting. My mother’s house was impromptu dance parties at three in the morning, and going to get ice-cream for dinner. There are no rules.
My Father’s house is the smell of gasoline, the sounds of a marriage at its breaking point, and a toy littered living room. My oldest brother taught me how to fight at a very young age. He told me I had to fight to survive, he was right. We stayed up late, after our parents went to sleep. We talked late into the night by the light of a TV on mute. We were scared to sleep. My Father’s house is scraped knees and chin bruises, its climbing on the roof at midnight to escape in the fantasy world of a book. We helped each other survive.
My Grandmas house is the smell of fresh baked brownies, the laughter of a massive family having a game night, a clean and safe place. My grandma did her best to care for me. The carpet was soft and the sunlight always shone through the windows. My Grandmas house was always my favorite place to be. It was fresh sheets, homecooked meals, and the warmth of a fireplace. Could this be what a home is?