My Home

Home is a small yellow house down a dusty country road. It’s not the house I live in though; it’s the house of Grandma Dolores. Grandma’s house is surrounded by red barns, corrals, and two swing sets. It has bold colored 70s shag carpet and wood paneling everywhere. I have moved countless times since I was little and have had homes on both sides of the state, but my grandma’s house is the one place that never changes. It will always be the place I call home.

Home is the smell of cinnamon, and perfume, and grain, and love, and sheep, and security and roasted turkey. My grandma’s house is where I feel safe; where I can be completely who I am and not worry about what others think. Home is little lambs hopping on my belly and tugging at my snow pants as I lie in the sheep barn. It’s a place where I can laugh until I am snorting and cry like I’ll never stop. Home is Grandma Dee who never gets mad and dozes in the blue velvet chair every afternoon. It’s where I can sit and do nothing and not feel the need to be anyone but who I am. It’s a walk through knee-high grass where for miles I can see nothing but sky and sheep and life. Home is watching late night television and eating ice cream with Uncle Geno. It’s picking eggs and sledding down tractor-made hills. My home is wrapping paper wars on Christmas Eve and basement musical productions.

Grandma Dee’s house is where I feel safe, loved, and relaxed. My mind teems with cherished memories of dinners, games, and family discussions. Dorothy’s home may have been a farmhouse in Kansas, but when I click my ruby slippers together I want to return to the home of my heart, Grandma Dee’s country home.