They say that home is where the heart is, it’s where you hang your hat. Not for me. Right now, my heart is elsewhere and my hat? It’s around here somewhere. Home is something different for me. Home is my parents side by side in our small kitchen. It’s a good Billy Joel song on the radio. Not New York State of Mind or She’s Always a Woman, but Scenes from and Italian Restaurant or Vienna. Something we can really belt out. It’s my father walking into the living room “hey, do ya have a minute?” which I pretend to be annoyed with, but secretly love. Home is not being able to make it through the kitchen on the weekends without something sweet sitting in the Kitchen Aid mixing bowl, and hearing “Taste this!” resound from my mom. It’s blue Popsicles in the summer and swimming down at the Browns’, or football in the Giumenti’s back yard. It’s my shaggy black dog, and fresh mowed grass. Home is me tripping over the step lips and the living room rug over and over. So I guess home doesn’t really make up where I’m from. It makes up who I am.


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