People say my house smells like spices. Especially on Thursday, when my Dad cooks up one of his mouth-watering dishes that take hours to make but only about ten minutes to eat. Smells waft through the house. Turmeric, saffron, cinnamon, each providing their own distinct aroma as they simmer in a huge pot.
Sounds fill our home as well. A random alarm clock that rings every morning at 10:03. Stairs talking to each other in creaks and croaks as someone runs up them two at a time. Long nails that need a trimming scratching the floor as my dog runs from window to window, watching my sister outside. Someone singing "Grenade" for the fourth time today (and another voice yelling "shut up"--it might or might not be me). Maybe even the rare sound of my grandmother plucking out a tune on the piano, filling the room with the rich sound of Chopin.
Home isn't necessarily found in the senses, though. Home is a conglomeration of feelings and emotions, not every one a happy one, and not easy to distinguish.
Home is the feeling of relief mixed with a spark of happiness you get when you arrive home after a tiring day at school and you dump your backpack at the foot of the stairs and fling yourself on your bed to immerse yourself in your favorite book.
Home is crawling into the little space between your bed and the wall as worry washes over you in great waves and covering your ears with your hands, pulling up your hood--anything to block out the sound of your parents arguing downstairs.
Home is long talks with your mom about anyone and anything at all, laughter ringing and contentment coursing through your veins.
Home is a personal time-capsule buried in the depths of your mind to be uncovered twenty years from now, causing you to fall into a little bubble of reminiscence.
Protect your home--it will shape who you are with delicate, loving hands. Never forget it, never give it up.