‘Story of Self’

What does home mean to you?

The light maple laminate lining the living room, stretching to the front hall. The scratches and dents that peel color off some of the panels. Dog hair and dust bunnies. Salt and spilled coffee. The look of the wood cleaner my mom liked to use after a buffing. The smell of the wood cleaner my mom liked to use after a buffing. Home is stubbing your toe on the same flooring trim you always have for the past seventeen years. Home is knowing how that scratch happened right behind the table by the dusty, nice-china cabinet and always apologizing for it. Home is constantly vacuuming the dog hair and dust bunnies and never getting them all. Home is my mom’s salt covered boots after shoveling the driveway for the last time. Home is the constant coffee spilled from loud voices. 

Still; home is calming talks and squeaky laughs. Sunday pancakes with a side of U2 and bacon. The Blockbuster gumball machine my dad bid on at their going-out-of-business sale. The hard gumballs we never switch out but still chew on. The day spent making homemade tortellini with more flour on faces. The thirteen foot Christmas tree that always gets chopped down to nine. The soft knocks on my bedroom door before each dinner. And the random I love you’s throughout the day. 

All feelings under one roof, my home is a modge podge of anger, resentment, loss, grief, love, gratitude, joy, firsts, and lasts. Our collection of tiny, beautiful things strung half-hazardly together.