Drive down the pot-hole filled street, take a left, and stop once you see the big oak tree. Next to this tree there is a small white house with a blue door and Christmas lights hanging from the roof, or at least this is what I imagine the average person would see. What I see is quite different.
I see the Christmas lights swaying gently in the warm August breeze because my dad refuses to take them down. I see the branch on the oak tree that I fell off of when I was eight which resulted in a broken collarbone and an abundance of tears. I see a pile of shoes by the door, muddy rainboots, converse that look like they survived a hurricane, and twelve pairs of tired soccer cleats with holes in the toes. Where you see a small white house I see my childhood. I see my home. A home is nothing if it doesn’t remind you of the things you love.
When I am at home I see all the best and the worst times of my life laid out in front of me. A house is full of meaningless objects, a home is filled with memories. Walking into my house you will immediately arrive at the living room. To you, it may only look like a couple of couches and a TV, but I see much more. I see how the lazyboy is awkwardly shifted out of place because when I was thirteen I spilled an entire bottle of purple nail polish all over the brand new carpet. It did not take long before I realized the stain would not be coming out so I shoved the lazyboy over it and walked away.
To this day I don’t think my parents have noticed anything at all. Next to the lazyboy you will see a flat screen that looks like nothing special. When I look at that TV I remember the day my dad ran into the house saying he has a surprise for us and then rolling in that TV like it was sent from heaven. I have never seen him prouder in my life. There are things about your home that are special to only you, that’s why it’s your home and only your home. The best part of having a home is being able to look at a piece of it and see a memory.
I could show you more and tell you stories of millions of other things that have happened in my home, but that would be like telling you my entire life story and there is simply not enough time in a day. To you, the small white house with the blue door next to the big oak tree looks like some old building. To me, it is the place where I learned to live. It is the place where I figured out who I am today. To you it is a house, to me it is my home.