Home is

“For the days you love me, for the days you hate me, and for all the moments in-between.”

It’s been a little over seven months since I’ve moved out of my parent’s place. It’s been a little over seven months of walking into an empty house. I say house because on most days, it didn’t really feel like home.

Every person that’s come to visit me has made a similar comment once I start showing them around: “It’s just you in this house? This is too much space for you.” For the most part, they’re right. I have three rooms completely untouched, and two bathrooms I refuse to use because I don’t want to have to clean them. Most days I enjoy the privacy. I enjoy being able to do what I want, where I want, and when I want. I enjoy the freedom. But if I’m completely honest with myself, sometimes I’d like to be free from this life that arguably has too much freedom.

Then I got Reek. As lazy as this puppy is, she’s a handful when she wants to be. Housebreaking her hasn’t been the easiest journey, but she’s young, and she’s learning. I’ll admit it’s a bit brutal when I leave for work every morning, but it’s lovely being greeted every afternoon with excitement–and pee. She adds a little bit of color into this house, literally (I need to replace my carpet pretty soon) and metaphorically. Being solely responsible over another living thing has taught me a lot about responsibility and making difficult decisions. When a choice presents itself between going out after work or late in the evening or going straight home to make sure she gets walked or played with, it’s going to be Reek every time. I love this puppy, even though she can be a pain in the ass when I’m trying to nap.

I guess you could say the inspiration behind this post is a result of a question my class was asked when we were in the third grade: “What’s the difference between a house and a home?” Kids shouted out all kinds of answers, and as good as my memory is, I wouldn’t even know where to begin listing them down. I just remember shouting out, “Home is where you live, a house is where other people live.”

The year leading up to me buying this house and waiting for it to be completed was difficult, and sometimes painful. I remember being so anxious and eager to finally have a place of my own, to do with as I pleased. It’s what I’ve been wanting since I graduated from high school. I wanted to get out, and so I did. I went from a home occupied by six people to a house all for me.

After seven months living on my own, I can try to answer the question a little bit better than my 8 year old self did:

A house–this house–is just a building. A bunch of wood, metal, piping, wiring, insulation, plaster, glass, and whatever else mandated by city officials to ensure it meets safety requirements. I have no emotional attachment to the physical aspect of this building, only a financial one. When I see and think about this house, I don’t pay attention to the furniture, appliances, or electronics. I think about the people I’ve invited over, the people that helped me add to the house. The people who’ve sat on my couch and watched movies or played video games with me. The people that I’ve cooked for in my kitchen and shared a meal with on my dining table. The people who’ve commented on the cleanliness of my closet and the disorganization of my bedside tables. The people who’ve fallen asleep on my bed, even when I didn’t want them to. The people who’ve left me notes in random places to find. The people who’ve helped me take care of Reek. The people I’ve chosen to share this house with.

A house doesn’t make a home. Home is the collection of memories you’ve made, the connections you’ve shared, and the people most important to you. Home is wherever love is. Home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling.