When asked what a house is, one may say a structure with four walls and a roof to protect from the weather. When asked what makes a home, some may answer the place where they are able to surround themselves with tangible objects such as the family heirlooms hung high above their fireplace or family photos hung throughout the house. But to me a house and home have two very different meanings behind each other. A house is a physical structure that is easily filled with things, while a home is filled with abstract memories made over the years. It is the memories that I can take everywhere I go and that cannot be lost in a fire or on the computer with a single click. A home is filled with memories such as smelling freshly baked cookies on a Sunday afternoon.
My home is filled with countless forever memories. I can still hear my mom through my bedroom wall singing the same lullaby to my baby brothers just like she did every night while tucking us in. When I walk into the bathroom and look in the mirror, I remember seeing my grandpa’s reflection when he let my brother and I shave his mustache at ages seven and four. In another glance I see my other little brother’s face when his first tooth fell out. At first he was a little traumatized but that soon turned into a mile wide smile after he heard about the tooth fairy that would visit later that night leaving something under his pillow! When I step out onto the back porch, I look around and see the countless birthday parties and bonfires we shared with friends and families over the years; times always filled with laughter and love. But there are sad memories that come with the good ones like the day I watched my fourteen-year-old German shepherd sitting in the back of our truck for the last time; or the day I fell off my bike the first time my dad took off the training wheels.
That’s the funny thing about memories. It doesn’t matter if they are happy, sad, or even make my stomach flip because I can take them with me wherever I go. It wouldn’t matter if we moved from house to house because no matter where I would end up, I would not only have my memories I’ve already made but have the opportunities to make even more of them. The memories I’ve made over the last seventeen years, and carry around with me, is what makes a house a home.
