There is something about being with the right people that feels so much like home, regardless of how long you’ve known them or your relationship with them.
Personally, I find home to be sandy air or snowy nights, cookie scented kitchens and satin pajamas. Laughter filled air and old cartoons and Disney on TV with kittens tie together the feeling of home for me.
I have found home in a few individuals, as I am very lucky to find such amazing people in my life. My first and always true home would be my mother. As I am sure you are fully aware, she was and still is my everything. I loved her more than a simple combination of 26 letters can express. I have also been fortunate enough to find home in a friendship or two.
My older sister Abbie feels like nostalgia and mashed potatoes (one of my favorite comfort foods). When I am with her, the room is always filled with joy, laughter, and pure happiness. We laugh until we cannot breathe (literally!) and we have meaningful discussions until we can no longer think. She feels like late night conversations and spontaneous adventures. She feels like home.
My little sister Elise brings an unending energy of spunk, sass, an joy. She reminds me so much of who she was when she was younger, only older (which makes sense, but considering how much she has been through, it’s surprising she hasn’t changed drastically). When I am around her, it feels like we are young again, playing with Littlest Pet Shop toys and chasing each other around he house. She feels like random dance parties and puppies. She feels like home.
My friends feel of never-ending smiles and support, midnight baking sessions and child-like tea parties. We fangirl over bands, musicians, actors, actresses, and every person you could imagine. We cry over burnt cookies, unrequited love, season finales, and life itself. They bring me a feeling of true, genuine happiness and freedom I can hardly find elsewhere. I feel at home with them.
Sometimes it’s the simple scent of vanilla or chlorine, maybe the familiar feeing of a warm, satin blanket. Home isn’t exactly a place; it’s more of a feeling. Sometimes, home can be a person.
Porcelain Prose 