Home. Four letters with a multitude of definitions. When some people think of home they think of a place they go after school, a long day of work, or where they go after a vacation. I don’t. When I think of home I think of my mom and my two brothers.

I think of the day when I was a ripe 14 years old waiting for my mom to bring my first brother home, Denver. I think of his soft buttery complexion, eyes crusted shut, and his soft hums of breath. Instantly I fell in love. 

Then, I think of meeting my second brother at 17 years old, Bentlee. He too instantly stole my heart. Never have I thought of home as the different apartments I bounced from or the big house I once occupied. When I think of home, I think of my family. 

When I think of home, I think of the days at the apartment pool, walks at the park, and cuddles on the couch. A physical house has never held me on my darkest days, has never made me laugh, and has never loved me. When moving from apartment to apartment I have learned to never depend on any home to comfort me. 

I look to my mom and now brothers to bring that warmth and comfort to my life, to be my forever home.