Home: A Short Story

“Home is where the heart is.” In The House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros develops this famous statement to depict what a “home” really represents. What is a home? Is it a house with four walls and a roof, the neighborhood of kids while growing up, or a unique Cleaver household where everything is perfect and no problems arise? According to Cisneros, we all have our own home with which we identify; however, we cannot always go back to the environment we once considered our dwelling place. The home, which is characterized by who we are, and determined by how we view ourselves, is what makes every individual unique. A home is a personality, a depiction of who we are inside and

The street I live on has a lot of houses on it, and mine just happens to be one of them. Each house has its own driveway each one unique in its own way. Most of them are paved driveways, but mine happens to be made from hard pack. I can picture the driveway when it was built, still in the same place and still being made of rocks.

Family is defined differently for everyone. Family members can live down the street or in another country. Some people have close knit families while others do not. Similarly, home is also defined differently for everyone. Some people might believe that home is just the house they live in, and with each move comes a new home. Others, however, believe that home is where their family is. People use family as a way to define home in slightly different ways. For example, in her essay “On Going Home,” Joan Didion writes about wanting to give her daughter “home” for her birthday. Didion describes her home as being where her family is. In his essay, “Coming Home Again,” Chang-Rae Lee uses his mother as a way of defining his home. In the third

Hello everyone! Welcome to our first meeting for the production of “A Solid Home”. I am very excited about what we can create together and I want us to be able to get started right away. For this production, our guiding concept is going to be “Death can be livelier than life.”

An object that represents home to me is a quilt hand sewn by my grandmother as it is an objectified collective memory of home. This quilt may be a common domestic object that is seen in every household, but to me, it is a powerful connection of the home, which reminds me of my family’s comfort, care and affection. Henceforth, Home is an objectified as a metaphorical embodiment of memory and relationships with my family (Morley, 2000)

It was the end of second grade when we moved into my parent’s home, although whenever I return it still feels like walking in after a long day of Mr. Minchak’s class. The stain on the TV room carpet still smells of orange juice, but the house and I are the only ones that know about its’ existence, like it’s our little secret. The house whispers memories of emotional detachment, it never raises its’ voice. Twelve years later, past thoughts are still there, but the feeling of home has never existed in that space; my parent’s home was never my home to be begin with.

There Tessa Towersum is, standing in the doorway looking at her mom who is drunk. Tessa was still and the room was dark and gloomy. Her mother, Nancy Towersum was naked and had puke all over her.

What is home? If one looks in a dictionary the answer would come out to be, “The place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.” However, for anyone who has had an actual home, they would know that such a term goes much beyond its concrete description. It is an impassioned aspect filled with values and foundation of nurturing. A home is not just an abode built to live in; in fact, that is just a definition of a house. Home is a place where one not only feels comfortable, but a place they look forward to opportunely live in every day. A home is built not by bricks or wood, but with the bond of family. A home is a place that reminds a person of countless memories and values when he walks through a

I hear the doorbell ring from my bedroom and I jump off my bed heading to the stairs and sliding down the stairway. I get to the door and open it seeing my best friend Asa awkwardly standing there with his hands in his pockets, he smiles, “Hey,” he says, “Hey, what’s up?” I say smiling back. He walks in and I close the door behind him. He sighs, “Ohh nothing much…” he says shrugging. We head up to my room and he flops on my bed and turns on the small tv, I sit at my desk and start working on a sketch, “What are ya working on?” Asa asks into my ear making me jump, “None of your business, psycho.” I say rolling my eyes, “Mmkay…” he says sitting on the bed, “What what are we doing today?" He asks starting to fiddle with the hemming on his shirt, "Let's

In a matter of fact, home is a noun that is defined in the -Collins

Everyone dreams about buying his or her dream house; I lost my dream house, twice. When my girlfriend Izzy and I began house searching, it was a whirlwind of excitement. This was our first hunt in the real estate market, and we were ready to close in on the perfect first house. Suddenly we were staying up into the late hours of the night, cuddled in bed, endlessly searching for houses on Zillow. Throw pillows, dishes and pictures began to jump off the shelves at us in every store we entered. We anxiously imagined every aspect of what we wanted in our house. The rush of chasing down the ideal house and making it our home was thrilling, yet short lived.

During 5th grade year of 2016, almost once every week my parents would go and look for a house. I would remind them everyday that the house we have is great and there is no need to find another. In that house I have lived there at least eight years, which is most of my life so far. Till this day it has always been my favorite house, and the perfect house. I have made so many memories there it is impossible to count. I loved it.

Home should not just an abode built to live in or one's place of residence, rather a a place of security and amenity. Home is not just a house, it's a place in which someone should look forward to opportunely live in. A home is not just built by bricks or concrete but rather with a countless supply of love. I walk into my home everyday welcomed by the memories of my childhood and the love of my family. I feel at ease reminiscing the first time I walked into this house and how we were a family of four in a house without walls or windows which now turned into a family of five with a beautiful place to call our own. To me home is my sanctuary, however, that is entirely different for Kiese Laymon in the essay How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America: A Remembrance because his home is unstable and a rough place to live in. Kiese Laymon does not always live in his home due to the risky circumstances with his mother coupled with the nonfunctioning essentials at home, which is the opposite of how I describe my 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.

I had always thought that my life was normal, my family was normal, and my house was normal--until that one day. That was when my whole life turned upside down.