My home is a small house in a small town. You walk up to the faded, white door and visualize who lives inside of this gray box on the corner of the loop. Twist the bronze knob and look inside.
The walls are covered in pictures of silly little girls and drawings, and in the farthest corner, the family pet, a fat lizard, constantly suns himself on a rock. Crafts and papers cover the living room table, and sometimes you can see a happy, young blondie doing her homework or making some lively art project on a big, white table. An old TV sits in the middle of the room, with old antique furniture surrounding it, showing family heirlooms and other little trinkets. Look up the staircase, and you will see metal salmon swimming up the beige walls.
In the family room, the first thing to catch your eye will be an old, discolored leather couch. Images pass through your mind of a young family snuggled up together for movie nights. Look to the side, and more pictures are hung up, ranging from family vacations in Yellowstone to two daughters dressed as Disney’s finest princesses. Something catches your eye: a framed hole in the wall. Oh, what a story that must tell.
A painting catches your eye; a portrait of a golden retriever, looking barely over six. You can theorize he was the family pet ere your visit. Ghostly shadows of young girls running around the house, the dog close on their heels, arise in your mind.
Up the stairs, three bedrooms surround you. One bedroom, the master bedroom, houses the owners. There is one large bed, big enough to hold all the family on Christmas morning or when the little one has a nightmare. The room to the left is the youngest daughter’s, covered in polka dots and paintings. To the right is the eldest daughter’s room, a dark blue, with Legos and books.
Stroll over to the kitchen, and look around at the mess. Dishes may be piled in the sink, or maybe the counter is filled with paperwork and empty milk cartons. Already you can see that a real family lives here, not the kind you see on TV with those colorful yards and spotless kitchens.
Speaking of homes on TV, those aren’t really homes. Home is where a family lives, where kids make messes and tired parents clean them up, a place full of temper tantrums and family bonding. A home is a place you love and can be loved, a place you feel safe and can be just you. You can’t act something like that out.
My home is a small house in a small town, but it’s still my home. It’s the place I was born in, the place I was raised in, and as long as my family is there, my home it shall remain.
