Home. What a powerful word. My mind is flooded with the tears from family tragedies and award-worthy jokes.

Home. A three-story, brick house. Stretched out with a long sidewalk and driveway. An acre backyard; best for energized pets and enthusiastic children. Five bedrooms, one family room, one kitchen, and several others.

I step inside my bedroom. Pale yellow walls detailed with decorations of bumble bees. A bright white dresser with a matching hamper. Both filled to the brim with my clothes. A floral quilt draped over top of a twin bed. A light pink nightstand overflowing with books that Mrs. Thorne-Locke gave me at the end of third grade. Two large windows. Wispy white curtains barely covering them so that the sunlight shines in warm beams on my face.

I am in love with every room of that house, but my home is more than bricks, wood, and glass. Home is Augie covering me in kisses as soon as I walk through the door. Home is the trek to a mailbox down a narrow driveway, icy and treacherous. Home is corned beef and cabbage on a cold St. Patrick’s Day evening. Home is bare feet burning on the pavement while playing basketball in the summer heat. But my real home does not have any walls. Just wide open doors.