No matter where you live, be it in a dormitory, an apartment or at home with the family you’ve always shared space with, your home holds a place in your heart and mind. For some, this place may be small, but it nonetheless exists.
For a commuter such as myself, my home is a sanctuary I can defer to after a long day. It is the place where my future, past and present are all one, and they are all certain. I can sit at the desk my brother crafted for me, sit on the rocking chair I once was rocked on, or snuggle under the covers my memere bought me on our last trip to my hometown in Rhode Island. The house I reside in now holds a power over me that simply cannot exist within the confines of a building, and yet does.
My home is a place of hope, a place of desperation and then a place of peace. At night before I close my eyes I stare at the childlike scribbles on the walls where the wallpaper has been torn by little fingers. I read the words over and over, trying to dissect some meaning from my chicken scrawl of years ago. I glance over the alphabet repeated in three separate strings, with a backwards “Y” arriving at the tail end of each recitation. Within my writing is found the writing of both my brother and my sisters. Their tales are spun above and below mine, arguments from forgotten years are inscribed beside my bed. Some writing is covered with posters, but others have not been hidden yet.
My home is an ever-changing yet always steady compartment of people. The rooms shift to accompany us in whichever way we desire. What was once a toy room quickly became a bedroom as the number of kids increased. What was once the bedroom for two children became only one, and a living room suited another for their place of rest.
Children would get excluded from the “girl’s club” only to be allowed back in for a different game. Now it’s just more of the same with the “girl’s club” changing to a homework area, and the card table being used for projects.
The hustle and bustle of my home that has comforted me through nearly two decades of my life has been constant, though growing as we ourselves have. Next year, as yet another person in my family attends college, the atmosphere will shift again, though still remaining the same.
My home has a hold on me, and I would be hard pressed to find someone without a similar feeling. Whether filled with contempt or gratitude, a home shapes a person. Family, either thoughtful or rough, plays a part in our stories. We are molded, to differing degrees to be sure, by our homes. I continue to be molded by mine, and continue to search it out as a place of rescue and respite. The power of homes, whether to draw you towards or away from them, cannot be underestimated.
Hannah Desrosiers is a campus correspondent for The Daily Campus. She can be reached via email at email@example.com.