Home is warmth.
Home is love.
Home is comfort, and all of those other vague, cozy-fuzzy ideas.
Home is also the whoosh and gurgle of a running dishwasher late at night in a darkened kitchen. Home is soaking coats dripping themselves dry in a laundry room after a day in the snow. Home is worn, hardwood floors. Home is dents and scratches on corners leftover from plastic trucks and cars that have long since been given away. Home is toast and hot cocoa on Sunday evenings. Home is bookshelves full of loved Dickens and Shakespeare. Home is wooden kitchen chairs that creak and wobble, but somehow stay in one piece. Home is Christmas trees, and candles, and flowers on the table. Home is freshly baked French bread, sliced with butter melting slowly into it. Home is those simple, mundane sounds and smells that are forever connected to happy memories.
The house that I grew up in will always have a special place in my heart – it’ll always represent a special, idyllic version of “home,” no matter how many other places I grow to call home throughout my life.
What does “home” mean to you?
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