Home

Home is whispered conversations with my brother in the hallway outside our rooms at 2:30 am, when neither of us can sleep and neither of us want to risk the ire of mom and dad by making any substantial noise.

Home is a twin sized bed with piles and piles of blankets and sheets that are in shades a bit more pastel then I feel.

Home is mom’s Santa Fe chicken, served almost painfully hot, that I still can’t wait to bite in to. Somehow it’s always so much better than I can make, even when I follow the recipe word for word and note for note.

Home is water pressure in the shower that’s hard enough to wash all the shampoo out of my hair and soft enough that it doesn’t hurt my back when I stand in there for much longer then I need to.

Home is the giant toothbrush, almost taller than I am, in the bathroom I share with my little brother.  It scares guests and makes me giggle when I imagine, usually while it’s late at night and I’m overtired,  a giant trying to brush their teeth.

Home is the fridge covered in graduation pictures of kids I know well and kids I know only in passing, all of whom have somehow worked their way in to my parent’s hearts. Their smiles and their gleaming graduation robes blend in to a collage of the pride and love that my family seems to never run out of.

Home is watching television shows that I would never watch on my own, because my family is all crowded around the couch together. Laugh tracks blending with the clank of computer keys as we all work on separate projects.

Home is the dog who barks at any and every sign of a person on the street and cuddles in to corners in my parent’s bathroom at the noise from a thunderstorm.  She’s getting older, and her legs shake when she gets scared.

Home is the place I go in between all the other places. A pit stop, a resting point, a place to recharge. It’s where I pack and I nap and I take some time to just relax a little bit. Home is always there, even when I leave it—again and again and again and again.