A Castle Full of Treasured Memories The key turns and the front door opens to reveal the empty rooms with bare walls and spacious floors to its new owner. The rooms quickly populate with boxes full of life. Soon the boxes are opened as fast as they enter each room. The contents decorate and cover the bland walls. Paintings populate walls, couches stand in front of lit fireplaces, and dining tables lined with dishes and silverware for the next meal. However, that a home is not just a house full of paintings and furniture. I believe that a home holds a story that never stops expanding. A home is where memories are made and held close to the heart of anyone living there. It is something that a house by itself cannot achieve. I believe that the sounds and smells that fill the home make it what it is. Whether it’s coming home from school and smelling the long-awaited dinner that grandmother cooked up or the sounds of birds singing outside on a branch near an open window, a home is where ...
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The comfort of home! With a face full of tears and a heavy heart, I leave for home after a bad day at school. I trudge along through the familiar neighborhoods that I have walked through a million times. As I walk I can’t help but wonder about each home I pass, what is happening inside of each house, which all look the same to me. I keep walking down a few streets, still overwhelmed with frustration and the chaos from my day. Lifting my eyes, I catch a glimpse of my own house peeking through the overgrown trees. Quickening my steps, I shortly arrive at my porch. I fling open the door feeling overwhelmed from my day. Instantly, my sadness seems to melt away as the familiar fragrance and loving warmth wash over me. How can walking through this doorway have such an influence of calmness and comfort to me? As I stand in the doorway surrounded by the joy and excitement of my siblings and the reassuring presence of my parents, everything feels at peace again. I realize at that moment that ...
What makes a house a home?! The Small White House with the Blue Door Drive down the pot-hole filled street, take a left, and stop once you see the big oak tree. Next to this tree there is a small white house with a blue door and Christmas lights hanging from the roof, or at least this is what I imagine the average person would see. What I see is quite different. I see the Christmas lights swaying gently in the warm August breeze because my dad refuses to take them down. I see the branch on the oak tree that I fell off of when I was eight which resulted in a broken collarbone and an abundance of tears. I see a pile of shoes by the door, muddy rainboots, converse that look like they survived a hurricane, and twelve pairs of tired soccer cleats with holes in the toes. Where you see a small white house I see my childhood. I see my home. A home is nothing if it doesn't remind you of the things you love. When I am at home I see all the best and the worst times of my life laid out in f...
