My childhood home will always hold a special place in my heart. It is the place where I grew up for 17 years and made most of my memories. I was a senior in high school when my parents first told me that we were moving. I was completely devastated, to say the least. We were not just moving to a town over, but to a completely different state (yes, it was only 30 minutes away, but still).

Knowing that I was going to move during such a crazy time of my life, it sometimes made me feel like I didn’t even have a real home. I was in the middle of applying to colleges for the next year where it would soon become the place I spend most of my time at. The transition between finding a college and moving made me reflect on what my home really meant to me.

The best thing about my childhood home was living on a dead end street. I remember the summer when my dad taught me how to ride a bike without training wheels. He unscrewed the training wheels, and slowly pushed me up the sidewalk until I found my balance. I was thrilled to finally be riding a bike all on my own. I rode it for hours up and down my block. Although I lived in a busy area my street gave me the accessibility to play for hours in front of my own house. Riding my bike or Barbie jeep, playing tag, and playing with chalk in the middle of the street are some of my best summer memories.

My house was the place where we spent countless holidays. I remember my home being all decked out in extravagant Christmas lights and the inside looking like Santa’s little workshop. After I moved, holidays did not seem the same to me. I moved from a smaller house to a bigger one. Even though moving out of Staten Island and into a bigger house in the suburbs of New Jersey meant having a bigger bedroom I was not thrilled. My little home was a nook where I could be comfortable in. My new home seemed to just be a place with a kitchen, a living room, and some walls. It did not feel like mine.

In my old home, the kitchen was the place to be. I could watch my mom prepare dinner every single night. It was the place where I learned how to make some of my very first dishes. Being able to sit at the table and eat dinner together every night is something that my parents value very much, (you sure as hell did not want to be late). Watching my mom cook dinner every night taught me most of what I know.

Whether I was home sick and I was laying on the couch while my mom took care of me, or if my dad read me Disney stories before I went to bed, or playing Lego’s in my basement with my sister, my home was the place where I could be myself. After I moved, I learned that it is more than just walls and a television that make up your home. It is the place where you laugh, spend time with your family and eat great food.

I will always consider the home I grew up in a memorable place. It is the place where I opened up all my Christmas presents, watched tons of cartoons on Saturday mornings, and had birthday parties at. There are days where I still consider my old home still mine. But, no matter what I will always know the memories I made there are irreplaceable.