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  • Writer's pictureAlyssa Rodriguez

'On Going Home'

“Home” is an interesting word-right? We all grow up in some kind of family. One may be OCD and so clean that a spec of dust could cause a fuss or maybe your family hoarded everything from past to present day. But in either case, it was home. Maybe home was a fairy tale and you lived in a tower awaiting the day a prince would you from your hell or maybe you grew up in in a simple Amish-like life with your close-knit family, like a ball of yarn wound up so tight that from one end to another you could not possibly imagine giving that up, because your family was “home”.

Mom was a teacher and dad was a coach, similar professions in their very own, right? But each presented it so differently when each of them came home. Mom was clean and needed order; she needed tradition and a foundation. Daddy, who was typically more fun, filled that foundation with belly laughs and piggyback rides. My little sister, the barbie doll she was, was also the rebel and a sarcastic little mouse. Cute as she was, with her disarming curls and smiles, she filled that home with laughter and a whole lot of love. Then there was me. So studious and stern. I felt like the point guard of my four-man team and trying to lead us out of so much order and forward to more adventures. But when push came to shove, there really was only one goal- to hit that game-winning shot right into a four-year degree.

When I finally met the one, who I call my other half, I came to realize what was missing in my normal happy life. My roots were dry, having never found true water, but the moment I met him, those roots no longer thirst. Those roots grew up to form a new home, they laid to rest a solid foundation. What I once thought was “home”, was never enough, until I made this new one, with the one I call home.

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