When people think of home, they think of places where they experience childhood and sketch their sprouting growth on the wall. But for me, I think of my small wooden house perched on the tip of a faraway mountain looking out over the tops of trees. It’s my small wooden house where itty-bitty raindrops on the roof vibrate throughout the house and shake the walls. Where hairy, eight-legged black dots slowly climb the walls and knit intricate patterns. Where I screech as my cousins’ hearty laughter strings through my ears. Beside my small house are stone stairs coated with lightning bolt cracks. Stairs that I like to believe could lead me to the gates of Heaven. My safe haven. Climbing those steps in search of a tranquil place to clear my mind is like entering a whole new dimension. A place where trees race to touch the blue endless sky. Where chickens bob their heads and flap their frizzled feathers. Where an array of fruits – each a different color of the rainbow – tumble onto the luscious green field. Where is home exactly? Far away, in the mountains of the Philippines.