The cool, ocean breeze whips my long hair into a frenzy as I kick off my flip-flops. I let my feet settle into the sand, which finds its place between my toes with each step I take. The sun is shining overhead, always accompanied by a few clouds. I pause and soak it all in, making sure to snap a picture of the view. The waves crash into the shore, onto my skin. The water is freezing, but I like the cold, it's refreshing. I run into the sea, crashing into the waves as they push and pull me in and out of the cold saltwater. It's days like this, in places like this, where I feel most at home.
Because home isn't a place. It's a feeling, my favorite feeling in the world. Home is cuddling up by the fire with a warm cup of tea and that book you've read a hundred times. It's spending time with the people you love most, whether they're related to you or not. It is a kind embrace after a long day. It is a look that says, "I understand, and I'm here for you."
Home is so much more than a building where you sleep and eat, with a big backyard and a white picket fence. No, that is just a house. A house becomes a home by filling it with moments, memories, in which you felt at home, times at which you were entirely yourself. That is home.
Created: Aug 09, 2012carynelizabeth Document Media