When I was young my idea of home
was the yellow walls I ran my fingers over,
and the cracked wood floors.
My idea of home was the place
I lay my head to rest,
and emerge each morning.
The place where
I sat tiredly,
slumped over a textbook before
all the dreadful exams.
It was the place where I
raced through the halls,
with pattering feet
close on my heels.
But now, I know.
Home is the feeling of
having my family laugh
in a hotel room
over cheap takeout,
in an unknown part of the world.
Home is the feeling of
laughing with my best friend,
stomachs hurting over nothing
interesting.
Home is the feeling of
having my relatives
crowded around a table too small,
and hearing them all sing my name.
Home is the feeling of
being in a packed stadium,
crying and dancing alone,
as your eyes follow the ones you love.
Home means never being alone,
and always having someone to rely on.
Home is not a song,
it is people.
People who say nothing but encouragements,
but criticize you when you need it.
Home is the feeling of being loved,
of being accepted.
Thank you for always being my home.