what is home?

Disclaimer: Some locations have been changed to ensure privacy.

For all of my life, which is nine whole years, I have lived in the same house. My home is bubble baths with mom in my parents' bathtub, tea parties I host for my dad and all of my American Girl dolls, and marked in pencil along the doorframe to the garage, the proof that I am, and have always been, taller than my brother. My world is 3361 Marfield Drive and I have to say goodbye to it. Today is Moving Day and I am sitting and staring at the blank canvas of what is supposed to be my living room, the place I taught my brother to read, and I can’t imagine calling another place home. 

And even though mom and dad said that everything would stay the same, I don’t believe them. I hated the way the new house smelled sharply like an antique shop and the pool was a different shape. I just knew it, the next nine years would be the worst years of my life. This house would never feel like home and we would have to move back into the old house. I hated that there were new owners that were going to be living in my home. So I tell my mom that I refuse to call the new house, my “home.”

I was okay with it. At the new house, the bubbles of the bathtub mom and I share were replaced with those of a Jacuzzi, the tea parties with dad and dolls took place around a similarly shaped table except our new favorite card games replaced the tea, and our markings on the doorframe to the garage stayed the same, except that my brother’s marks finally exceeded mine. Large ceilings and preppy paneling that graced the house grew on me and it was warm. The place I had recently resented for disrupting my world, was now my home. And as the new washed away the old, and became what I knew, I embraced all it all. How was it that easy? I realized the reason I was able to easily navigate through all of these changes was that the most important aspect of my home had remained a constant. The true essence of my home was disguised by the physicalities in the memories closest to my heart. It didn’t matter what games were played or if we were in a bathtub or jacuzzi. I was with my family; my family is my home. 

Home is a feeling created by important emotional connections that reflect one's well-being. The feeling of home has no rules. It can be attached to any person, place or thing with emotional significance. The feeling of home is an intangible sanctuary. It is a feeling of comfort, acceptance, love, and support. But it is important to note that the home itself is not a place, and physical space is not necessary for creating the feeling of home. Home can be located in any environment if an emotional connection is present. Discovering what your home is, requires personal reflection about what matters most to you. As a result of the abstract and intangible definition of home, some people have a hard time finding their home and possibly trying to duplicate what they know as home. However, what is needed to create a home is different for everyone because each home reflects the authenticity of a single persons’ well-being. 

My faded chucks remember these dirt paths. How could I forget. Weeds grew in place of the cabins in which I used to rest. Shards of hand painted tiles reflecting the blues in the surrounding ocean glittered the floors. My memory didn’t want to see the emptiness that lay before me. I regretfully mistake the shadows of trees for the silhouettes of past campers, heartache. I continue along the path, and through my eyes I see my fresh, naive, smitten and blissful selves in the ash that contours the gravel. The seldom metal bars stand dilapidated, the ones that won the fight, serve to remind us of the buildings they used to shape, but I don't need to be reminded. I see it. I see it all. The petite chocolate haired girl with a big smile, I see her in these steps, I see my best friend. Summer after summer we would race to embrace each other on these steps, the steps were so large you had to step down with one foot at a time. As comical as it looked this was my unwavering feeling of true friendship and love. Around the corner, across the field and up the hill a community would gather and sing in pure bliss and togetherness. The benches that held these people were carried away in the breeze but I still saw him. The arm around my shoulder and the crimson on my cheeks. The first lips that touched mine that made my pale skin glow and my cobalt eyes sing. With each step I took my body flooded with memories of a lost place. My hand grasped my best friend’s as we took the steps together and I realized the physical structure, although beautiful and eclectic, was not the reason I considered camp to be my home. Camp was my home because of her and him and the people of Hilltop. 

I wish I could tell my nine-year-old self on moving day, who was kissing each wall goodbye, to kiss my family instead.