A person’s house is often called their home, but every so often that is not the case. I believe a person’s home is where they feel the most comfortable, the safest and the most secure. A phrase that is often used that demonstrates this would be “home is where the heart is”. Houses are symbols of security and in some cases independence.  But home, whether it’s a home town, or just a comfortable place where one feels happy and safe is special, it is where you feel like you belong. A home isn’t a place to sleep or hoard possessions, it is anywhere one may decide, but everyone has a home, whether it’s messy and easy like my friend Katy’s or vibrant and full of people like my boyfriend’s.

 My best friend Katy’s home always has a sense of comfort and ease. Her couch is constantly scattered with the hair of her many loud, barking dogs.  Her house also seems to carry a continuous scent, its sweet and warm with a faint hint of cinnamon, apple febreeze. Her home is warm and inviting, and always a little messy with random books, and pillows scattered all around, which only seems to add to its’ coziness. The inside is painted white with a few scenic paintings hung up against the wall, lights and décor. Her little sister is often found sleeping on her couch, bundled into a tiny cocoon, and her older brother inside his oddly silent and secretive room.  Although what really shows me that this is her home and not just her house is her ease and comfort when she is there.

My boyfriend Carlos’s home is a light tan color, like amber, it carries his distinct scent of musk and a sweet scent that follows you almost relentlessly, like faint hints of melted caramel.  His brother whom is continuously there has a loud and funny way of speaking, as if he is frequently drifting away. His mother is like an ocean on a quiet afternoon, so calm, vast and unreadable which often scares me because I cannot read her mind. His father is a large man who smiles whenever I see him. He has a deep voice that reminds me of what I once imagined Santa to sound like. Carlos has a constant ease, that makes one truly believe he, sincerely isn’t bothered by anyone else’s opinion. He smells like his shampoo, head and shoulders, which is sweet and musky, and although I doubt he uses it, the cologne Axe.

My house is almost always void of inhabitants. It is clean downstairs and just like the reality shows on TV, it is a façade. It’s empty. Like a vacant museum. With all of my family’s possessions littering the rooms in an unorganized organization. As if a family lived there, and even though we all still occupy its rooms it is bare of intimacy. By the time the rest of my family reappears, my sister becomes glued to the large, dark, obnoxiously noisy TV and becomes oblivious to the world around her. My mother is eating everything in our congested refrigerator. And my father is fast asleep on our tiny, dust colored grey couch. Our dark assortment of tiles feels cold on my feet. And our brightly painted walls appear dull because I am once again just as alone as before. Sitting on my petite twin bed, with my colorful blanket of the Beatles, studying the jumble of posters hung messily across my room. Moreover despite the rooms suddenly being filled, it is a show, a sham to display a happy family when in truth I couldn’t know less about them.

Sometimes I envy them; their families always seem so happy and close, as if there was an endless and brilliant white picket fence around them. Then I remember nothing is perfect. I know they all have their problems just like me, and I try not to blame anyone for my house being so relentlessly cold and lifeless. My house is only a place where I study and sleep and perform all of my regular boring activities and keep my clutter. My home is at the park with Katy, with its sharp grass and burning sun. Where we make our stupid jokes and talk about our humorous lives, and listen to all the cars driving by. It is on Carlos’s plush, roomy tan couch, where we talk, joke and watch that obnoxious TV, where I can feel his decently well-built arms around me and his soft, smooth lips on my cheek. It is wherever I can hear the laughter of my friends and family, that is my home, and that is where my heart is.