When I was 19 my parents sold our childhood home to move not too far across town. I was devastated. I loved everything about that house. From the overgrown bushes and hill that sat next to the house, to the historical cemetery that was nestled between the trees. I loved the memories we built that I felt were permanently etched in the walls. Christmas morning waking up to run down the basement stairs to peak under the tree, to every birthday candle that was blown out at the kitchen table. So many memories built under one roof, to me it was personal. I couldn’t imagine another family living there, making new memories. I felt as if I needed to protect it from someone else. Eventually I let go and in the new home we created new memories. Different ones. I realized that wherever my family was, that was home.
Home to me is a sacred place. It’s the warm bed inviting you to stay in it just a little longer. It’s the cozy couch you snuggle up on with you and your loved ones after a long day. It’s the sounds the house makes when everything is still. That feeling of peace when you pull into the driveway after a trip or a long day. That place where you can be yourself amidst a world that is always pulling you into different directions.
Wherever you reside, regardless of how may times you move or stay put home is the place that you decide to make your own. From the people that you share it with to the neighbors you feel are family, that’s home. Your home should reflect all of you. Inside and out. It doesn’t need to be perfect. It doesn’t even need to match. It just needs to feel inviting, warm and loving. It’s more than a home, it’s a feeling. So decorate it with what you love, share the things that matter to you. Keep it happy, keep it light. But above all else keep it in your heart.
Whenever I am in the neighborhood I drive by Randolph St. I will always consider it home since it’s still in my heart, housing all of the memories.