Home is family to me, in every sense of the word. It is the loud jumping and laughing of my niece, Marley that wakes me up before my alarm goes off. It is the endless medical talk at dinner that eventually makes my brother get up so he doesn’t get sick. Home is the nights that my family and I have laughed so hard I thought my lungs would collapse. It is the loud rap music my brother insists on producing at two in the morning. It is the creaky gate opening and sitting in anticipation, waiting and wondering what fun is coming around the corner. Home is the boxes full of hundreds and hundreds of pictures of the family that has been there for each other through thick and thin. The photos I look through every once and awhile just to feel the love and passion of my family when we aren’t together.

Home is the pictures of my sister Ashley and I being complete idiots at red lights. The endless late night runs to Target or anywhere really, just to get out of the house. The late night swims or the adventures the car would lead us to. Home is the 100+ concerts that we have gone to see. Home is fooling around in the drive-thru lines and giving exact change. It is the dinners that are way past dinnertime. It’s the late nights that I would go into Ashley’s room to watch TV and get my hair done. It is the spontaneous nature of my family that shows when I get home from school and the car is packed for a weekend trip that was planned only a few minutes ago. It is the day trips to the cousins’ house or to the beach.

Home isn’t just a house for me; it’s the people I’m surrounded by in the house that make a world of a difference. The way the dogs don’t even get excited when I walk in the door means home to me. The late nights my mom and I spent binge watching the same show we watched a couple years before. The early Christmas mornings that everyone would want to sleep in but I would demand to get up as early as possible. Those mornings where we would have to sit on the stairs in anticipation until mom was ready with the video camera and her cup of tea. The times we all sat around the campfire just talking about anything. The nights we laid on the trampoline watching the shooting stars above our heads. Home is that stupid video of my mom jumping around the trampoline that was sent to my sister and brother just for laughs.

Home is the pictures of family vacations that built memories for centuries scattered all around the house. It’s Chincoteague, the mountain house, and Cherrystone. It’s watching scary movies at the mountain house and not sleeping that night because of them or getting attacked by sprickets. It’s the Fourth of July parade where my cousins come down to watch it and have a barbecue every year. Home is the picture we take every year on the same curb as our family grows. It is the rainy day we went to Hershey Park and just played in the puddles, which was all too much fun. It’s the nights that fly by because we were having too much fun together. Home is when I have to hug every single member of my family before I leave the party. It’s the pictures decades old that memorialize the family members I didn’t have enough time with before they passed.

My artwork, pictures, drawings, and painting that are hung all over the house creates home. Home is the massive piles of toys in every corner, waiting for someone to play with them. It is Timmy the turtle that sits in the kitchen when Marley isn’t here to play with him. The Winnie the Pooh blanket that still keeps me company on stormy nights. It is the smell of incense burning. Home is the holiday decorations that are splattered all over for every holiday. It is the giant pile of pillows and blankets that smell just enough like my dogs to create that home feeling. The stupid child gates that someone always trips through. It is also the days when I am ready to get into the shower and everyone else gets in before me. Home is the picture frame above the TV that sits blank because we always have a new favorite picture that should be in the frame.

In a more literal sense, home is the dent in the rain gutter from backing up the truck a little too far the day we moved in. Home is the potholes that I dodge every single day on the way to work or school. It is the beat up old Impala that sits stagnant in the driveway. Home is my prom pictures where we had to pose in front of the Impala for effect. The memories of sealing the driveway and getting goop on the siding of the house that will forever stay there. Home is the 20-year-old play set that sits in my yard that Marley and my dog, Lucy sit on and play. It is the paint stains on my favorite shorts because we got rowdy while painting the walls.

Home is the family that I couldn’t change but wouldn’t for the whole world. Home is the memories that will never ever leave my mind, even if I want them to. It doesn’t matter where we end up as long as we are together. It is the nights where I say I would rather be out with friends, but in my heart I know that I would not trade those nights for anything in the world. Home is the pictures of memories that didn’t last long enough splattered all about my bedroom wall. Home is the journey; not the destination.