Home is the canvas which life is painted upon. It holds all memories; joy and sorrow, laughter and tears. Home is a foundation. It is where you grow and prosper with each day. Home is a gallery of reflections in which we immerse ourselves each night. It is the tree house in the backyard, where I got my first bee sting. It is learning how to ride a bike, or catching butterflies in the field. It is hectic; there is never a dull moment when one is home. It is the sweet smell of mother’s apple pie in the fall and tangy lemonade passing smoothly through my lips in the summer. It is night time talent shows, each child fighting for the spotlight.
Home is sports. Baseball. Three strikes, you’re out. It is running free in the backyard, an endless game of tag, until someone trips and beings to cry. Then comes the arguing, bickering. Someone gets sent to timeout. I pout because I don’t get the red train I wanted to play with. The mesh basket becomes the perfect hideout to let everyone know I’m upset.
Home is the simplest memories which can be recalled with ease. It is the movie nights and the beds made on the floor, each child ringing with laughter at whatever was premiering on the 30 inch T.V. that night. It is safe and comforting, with the occasional pressure to live up to a quintessential image. It is the arguing which stems from messy rooms and far too long of showers. It is the “trap door” in the attic where are the nightmares are stored.
Home is grandmas lap. Story time after preschool, everyday. The Christmas pop-up book waiting to be dissected ten times in one sitting, grandma’s soft voice reading each word in a melodic tone. It is grandpa’s cooking. Polish pirogues. It is stone school on the cool steps leading to the musky basement. Chose left move up two, right move down one. I must’ve graduated over twenty times before my fifth birthday. Now, that home seems far away, buried seven feet beneath the ground, just a stone to mark the endless memories they made on earth. I continue to cherish these memories; they now reside in the Irish folk CD my grandma gave me when I started Irish dancing classes, and the clover-spotted bear I received after her passing. I treasure the memories I have of the grandparents that set the foundation for my loving home.
In summer, home is the beach. It is the hour long car ride and the “are we there yet”s. It is the day I first learned how to waterski, four years old and more terrified than ever. Home is where lessons are learned. Home is where perseverance and determination are made.
At home, I am happy. I am surrounded with love and support and joy from every angle. I am always greeted with a slobbery canine kiss and mother’s latest cooking concoction. At night, there is the slight murmur of snoring coming from the corner of the living room in which my father’s reclining chair inhabits.
Home is an escape. Here, we can pretend everything is okay, even if the outside world is drowning in endless issues, choking on words left unsaid. Home, is like a shelter in the middle of a battle field, safe and secure. Here you are welcome with open arms. You are greeted with warm smiles and a compassionate mind. Home is the place in which fills you with serenity. No matter where you are, you can close your eyes and picture yourself here. The smell, the noise…
Take off your shoes, and stay a while.