When I first graduated high school I was so I excited to move out for the very first time. I had all the freedom in the world but I was still a short 8 minute drive away from my parents house. My home. I moved back for about 6 months but then have been living away for about a year and a half. Even though I've lived in 3 other places besides my parents house I've never truly felt like I was ever 'coming home' except at my parents house. It was the house that I spent most of my time growing up in. It was my shelter. I grew up there. I practiced my dance in the kitchen and family room on the tile for years critiquing myself in the reflection of the T.V. I made my first attempts at baking and cooking there. I spent hours, in the living room, trying to hang out with my sisters friends that I thought were so cool, who would eventually become my friends as well, and some such a big part of my life. I broke up with boyfriends on the front porch, cried after teenage arguments with my parents in the bathroom, played with the family dogs and best friends in the back yard, spent hours studying for tests, writing papers and applying for colleges in the library. I watched tons of movies and episodes of the OC while procrastinating homework with my cousin Jacob who became a brother to me. I became a pre teen, teenager and woman behind those walls. I discovered my own self worth, created my own unique personality, formed my ideas about politics and more surrounded by the walls of that house. I love that house. And my parents over a year ago put it up for sale. At first it didn't bother me too much because I was off living my life and trying to make new places my home. But a couple months ago we moved my parents into their new house and when I pass their old house every day it has started to make me sad. It was my home. I know that I will eventually create a house of my own, hopefully surrounded by my own family. I will grown into it and make new memories but until then, I will miss not being able to feel like I am going home.
