I come to this place every year. The beaches of beige sand and the feeling is cold and soft underneath my feet, I instantly feel so at home. The sun is shining and the water is sparkling like glitter in the distance. I turn around to see a brown shingle house with lots of windows staring back at me. I can hear the voices of my family as they gather on the balcony overlooking the beach. There are three families, twenty people all taking a moment on the patio to relish in the fact that the week we
Home is a place where the good and the bad memories happen. Home is where the comfortable side comes out. Only problem is how does home define a person’s character? My favorite place to visit is my grandmother’s and grandfather’s house in Alabama, because it reminds me of my childhood, shows me how far in life I have gotten, and provides a sense of comfort. My childhood was a journey between living with my grandparents for about six years then, moving to a different state without grandparents. Since
were others around. It was a surreal moment, nothing but my thoughts and my family populated the airport. As we slowly wandered to the car, the quiet and serene area engulfed us. We remained silent the entire journey to the car; we were too shocked about moving to Michigan to talk. Clear droplets slowly began to fall on the window pane. Each one becoming more and more aggressive and mesmerizing. The loop of the pitter-patter was all I could hear even though my parents were making small talk. In Mexico
I live in the “middle of nowhere.” The neighbor-less neighborhood is where home is for half of the time as the other half I live in an ever-growing college city, Columbia. I have cultivated a special appreciation for each journey home through the winding Missouri back roads that bring me to the place where my soul rests, so matter how many times I make the drive. The roads may take me to my house, but my home exists far beyond its walls. Circling around my white, two-story house there is a field
Home Home is a place you’re always welcomed, a place where you know even when you mess up the people there still love you. Home is the place where you don’t have to wear a mask for anyone you can just be yourself always, or at least that’s what home was for me. Last year in May of 2016 my mom mentioned that we were probably going to be moving in with her boyfriend in the following months. She told me this but for some reason, I didn’t actually think we would. I never thought we’d actually
alike yet each has their own secrets that others know not. Something is out there…something, everything, or… nothing. Is nothing something? My nothing thoughts are interrupted by a sharp Bing; a reminder to come home. The glow from the message fades into the grass as I turn towards home. The wind is gone but something still stirs. I hesitate. What is it that is so unfinished and unsatisfied? Something is no longer right. And this time, I know it’s not
pumpkin fills the autumn air. My sister comes waddling around the corner with a big belly carrying my third blessing, ah, I’m home. Home is like a finished puzzle, so many pieces included, but they all fit together to make a warming scene. My sister’s house has always been home to me no matter where she lived. A place where I feel accepted and unjudged. My nephews are home to me, they fill me with unconditional love and I return the same. A place that is relaxing and all my anxiety suddenly fades
My house, not my home, just my house. There is a difference, but I wonder if anyone notices other than me. A home has special touches, the cozy feelings, family, memories, and most importantly it gives you and your family something to be proud of. It is something your parents have worked hard to have, it is hopefully a place you feel safe, loved and know better than anywhere. Home isn’t really based on what it looks like, it’s a feeling, or is it a mix of both? I believe it is a mix of feeling
live in the “middle of nowhere” for half of the time; the other half I live in an ever-growing college city, Columbia. I have cultivated a special appreciation for each journey home through the winding Missouri back roads that bring me to the place where my soul rests. Though the roads may take me to one of my houses, my home exists far beyond its walls. My country house itself sits front and center in our approximately 9 acres of land. Circling around the white two-story house there is a field full
Home is something I didn’t even notice, or thought I’d miss, until I’d left for college. And then, I found myself longing for a home I hadn’t noticed was a home. Home feels warm, welcoming, like it should never be left. And yet, we have all left home. It used to be the middle roundtable with the four uncomfortable, a bit too large, chairs in the library. Between 11:10 and 11:40, everyday; home was lunch with my friends. Matt, on my right, and Clark on my left, scrambling to complete the homework