The worn welcome mat, the quaint blue door, the creaking rocking chairs: they’ve all been there for as long as I can remember, over time, receiving nothing but a glance- if even. They’ve seen tragedy, tears, and anger, bearing the hard, agitated foot steps and the slamming of doors. They’ve seen joyful smiles and heard sweet laughter, adding another something to be thankful for. That small, white-sided building has borne the same family for eightteen years, witnessing growth, struggle, and everything in-between. I’ve never walked in a different door, across another "welcome" mat, or past another pair of rocking chairs to the family I was blessed to be born into, into the building commonly called “home.” Only, home is where the heart is.

My heart lies where the birds sing and the sun gracefully shines, where the air is fresh and the world’s natural noises sound, like the wind blowing through the age old trees. My heart lies where I can close my eyes and see just as much as I could with them open. It lies where distraction is not necessary, where everything comes together. It’s where the world’s conflicts disappear and the only concern is what time I’ll force myself to leave.

There’s not a blue door or rocking chairs, but it doesn’t matter. There doesn’t have to be a mat with the word “home” inscribed across it to tell me what it is, and what it means to me. I decided for myself that there’s no rules as to where my heart lies, because home is where my heart is.