“WOAH! I feel good, I knew that I would, now.”
James Brown’s hit song blasts from my house. Walking up loaded with groceries, I smile, knowing the scene that awaits. I push open our front door, and sure enough, my three sisters are obnoxiously belting while cleaning the kitchen. My younger brothers lie on our window seats, reading library books. This is a familiar routine that I’ve seen countless times, one I’ve been part of countless times.
Our house is definitely not the smallest, but with eight loud, energetic people packed in, rarely do I ever actually feel alone. Not that I particularly mind — after years of constantly being in each other’s faces, my bond with my siblings are stronger than the many arguments and skirmishes that we’ve had. They are my best friends. On nice days, we’ll go and play badminton with our very broken net and rackets. Other times, a sister will come up and hug me while I work. The best instance is when someone has made food, and wants to share. That’s definitely my love language. My siblings are the people who support me, who I can trust, and who I want to spend time with.
To me, that’s what “home” is. Having the reassurance of my family to lean on. And yes, while our sunshine-yellow house contributes to that stableness, I don’t need to be there. I get the same amicable feelings when we’re all piled into our van on yet another road trip, or when we’re visiting family in the South, or when we’re at a random meeting and don’t know a single person, or wherever. I always know I have them.
With my oldest sister leaving for college in a few months, the cozy comfort of simply being together that has been preserved for years will be disrupted, and we’ll have to rethink what a home means without her. For now, though, I just want to enjoy her while she’s still here.
I smile again, set down my bag of groceries, and join in.
“So good! So good! I got you!”