Home. What a familiar word. First Family appears in my thoughts. Mom, Dad, Eliot, Jesse, Nora, BB.

Then the location springs into my mind. An stone house, old and proud. An unruly front yard. Trees and leaves, windows and doors. A smooth back porch. A rocky patio. An overrun garden and an empty driveway, long and cobbled. A green front door calls me in. A boardwalk of wood floors stretches out inside. A vast living room, music and roars of laughter float through the air. An orange dining room, memories of dinner and homework. A messy kitchen, “ were those cabinets white originally?” and “Did you do the dishes yet?”. The hallway leads back to the creaky basement stairs. It extends to the office, orderly and cold, where my sisters work. The wood banister leads up from the door to the landing. Just one truncated flight of stairs later and I reach my room. Separated. Small. White. Organized. Covered in all kinds of things. A bulletin board, the letters S-I-M-O-N, a bottle cap map, and artwork from years of creation.

This is my Home.