I grew up in a house that my parents rented. It was actually small considering that there was my parents and six kids. The house had a kitchen, a living room a bedroom upstairs which was also where the bathroom was,a small bedroom downstairs and a little bigger bedroom off the kitchen. I was a little less than a year old when we moved in and 19 when I moved out.

You think of going home as going to the place where you live now. Where you hang your hat so to speak. Really, home is where you felt the safest and most secure. For me it was that same little house I grew up in. I learned what a family was in that house and some of the worst things I can remember happened there. The same place I learned how to deal with those same aweful things. There were great things that happened there to. I brought my first baby home to that very house and learned to become the best person that I could. Many children from the neighborhood played in the yard. My parents "adopted" all the stray kids in our area. Parents all around us knew that if they weren't sure where their kids were to check our house first. The worlds greatest cookies were baked in that house and some of the worst things to eat(don't tell mom)also were made there.

Christmas was celebrated there for many years that were the richest and there were a few of the poorer variety to. We had many pets growing up and many of them were buried there. Heartbreaks and break ups happened there. My little brother and sister were created there. So many things inside of the walls we call a house.

One of the worst was my mom's struggle with cancer, I took care of her in that house. My dad was at work and siblings of course had lives of there own and I was their piece of mind while mom was sick. When she passed away my dad retired from where he worked Who by the way, also happened to own the house. Then, shortly after, those people evicted my dad from the house and had it burnt to the ground and a big hill of dirt piled on top. It became nothing more than a burm to keep people off the stone quarry property.

We now can no longer "go home". My dad still goes and sits in what's left of the old driveway. I still get home sick and miss the house I grew up in. I guess then home is not really a place then, is it? Home is not bought or sold. Home is where memories are made and love and families grow.Home is part of you that does not get forgotten and can never be replaced. Home is the sick feeling you get when you can never go back to it.

Learn more about this author, Marilyn Y Meyer.
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