Home
It’s quite fascinating really - how we are taught that our home is just a tangible place of shelter or protection; simply a set of numbers and street names to be used as an identification or location mechanism. Brick walls, shingled roofing, glass windows, and a front door - home. But it’s not; it is so much more. Home cannot be explained by street numbers or descriptive details depicting the exterior design of a structure. Sometimes home is a face, or a voice, or a sound so familiar and so beautiful you could recall it in even the deepest depths of your sleep. It’s laughter, memories, and moments more honest than any truth you’ve ever known. A place of hope and love, even in the most burdening of times, regardless of the circumstances. It’s a unique place of understanding, freedom, and expression, where everyone is beautiful and everything is a delightfully chaotic adventure. We are taught on our knees by kindergarten teachers that our home, in the most literal sense, is a place to stay, sleep, live, and grow. But sometimes, in the silence that subsequents wistful memories and nostalgic stories, you come to realize that you never did more living or growing than you did with certain people by your side - and suddenly, you are home.
This poem is about:
My family