As Dorothy famously once said, “There is no place like home.” To her, the Kansas farmhouse where she resided was special. Despite the fairytale, her words ring true. Although people may spend time in numerous different locations, there will always be a special shelter for them to call home, and no other place like it. It may be an apartment, cabin, cottage, or house, but there is a distinctive feeling associated with a home.
A home is made of memories. I believe that the walls that surround you and the roof above you is filled with special moments. The windows, furniture, and even rooms can be a simple reminder of them. Whether it is a memory of making a cake with your grandma in the kitchen or doing a puzzle with your brother on the living room table, there are significant attributes to a home. These moments add comfort to the place and make it something to appreciate. They may be different for each person living there and have various contexts, but memories make a place a home.
In my life, homes have been an important aspect. My parents divorced somewhat early within my childhood, resulting in a tough and uneasy time. It felt as though everything was moving, and my life as I knew it was changing. Eventually, my mom settled into her house, and my dad into his, each with a new location. As I had grown up with one house, with my room painted a light purple, and a beautiful garden in the front yard, I knew it was my favorite place to call home. Since then, I have learned that my idea of my home would alter. It was no longer a necessity for me to live in the same place, or have the same paint on my walls, but instead, it was who else I was living with. Now that I had two houses, and was switching between living with each parent, I too settled into a new routine. The time that I had with each parent, memories were made, and each place began to feel like a new cherished home. My perspective shifted. I used to believe that I could only have one singular home, and nothing could amount to that same importance. Now, I know that that is not the case. Although the addresses changed, the people I lived with allowed the shelters to be called my homes.
Although life may not be as simple as following a yellow brick road, I understand that having a home is very special. It is not the shelter or location itself that categorizes a home, but it is the memories you make there and people that you share it with. When reminiscing about a residence, I recognize how the shelters I live in and where I spend my time, are important places. Ultimately, a home is a place of comfort, comprised of a special feeling each time you turn the doorknob and walk inside.
