Home Is Where the Heart Is

When I think of home, I think of my family: my mother, my father, and my dog. No matter where I've been or how long I've been gone for, they are always there to welcome me back. When I think of being home, I think of tall, wooly slippers because our house is always too chilly to wander the halls with bare feet. In the summer my house smells of flowers and heat from open doors, with the slightest sound of the trickling creek in the backyard. In the autumn, cinnamon scented candles burn as a tea kettle shrieks and spits steam on its practically permanent place on the stove. The smoldering fireplace becomes the center of every evening in the winter, and when spring arrives the windows are opened again as my mother pursues spring cleaning. All year round, a fruit basket filled with seasonal treats sits on the table next to a vase of seasonal flowers. A loaf of the week's bread is chipped away at from Monday to Friday. Riding boots and chaps can always be found in a nearby corner. When I am away from home, I miss the comfort and simplicity. I miss small meals thrown together on the pan and quiet evenings spent reading or watching a film with the family. Cultured and cultivated, home is where the heart is.