To me, a home is memories. Memories are made in many different ways – people, objects, pets, places, smells, and sounds. A house becomes a home as soon as the things that mean a large amount to you become engraved in your mind. Some memories may be negative, as others may be positive, but those are the simple things that make a life well lived. For me, my home during my childhood was filled with my parents, my five siblings and even our neighbors. Along with that, my family has a legacy of being a part of the foster parent community. We had a new daily member coming and leaving every few months. It took a toll on my heart to see those little ones leave, and to know you most likely will never see them again. However, the joy each new child brought into our home helped distract me from the negative parts. It also enabled us to share our home with each child and allowed for them to be part of our family and take it with them when they had to leave. It would remind me of the beautiful and heartfelt moments I will never forget. To me, a home is the meadow out behind my childhood house my siblings and our family dog grew up playing in. That same field is what I am reminded of as I look out of the window at my new house to a different meadow, where the same dog I grew up with and loved dearly, has passed away. But here, we have gotten another dog, and once again, the sad memories are drowned out by the new and joyful ones that make life truly worth living. To me, my home is my siblings, who never fail to make me smile, or annoyed, but in all, they are my family, and they have made me the woman I am today. No matter where I go, these memories will stay with me, even when I make new friends, even when I get married, even when I have kids of my own, I will be reminded of my home, my family, and where I grew up, and allow me to pass on these memories to others I consider family, to make not another house, but a home.