As I've gotten older, home has morphed past the physical. Physically the wood walls that my dad and his brothers built with his own two hands will be the only home I know. As I got older thought, I realized that life would take me a lot of places. Some of these places good, others of them bad. Whenever life became too noisy I had my quiet place that I could always escape to. Deep in the woods away from the noisy world.
As time went along, I realized that home meant more to me than the physical house. My home is the people who push me to be better. These people also push me to be crazy. But I don't mind it.
My dad my sister, and myself
My mom and my sister
Overall, I believe that home is a feeling. It is the feeling I get when I see sunflowers. Every time I see men cutting wood to prepare for the long winter, women hand making bread, and yellow canaries. These items are simply visual reminders. Home comes most alarmingly to me in smell. In feelings when the snow slowly creeps in and the fire burns out. This is my home. Animals are my windows and people are my doors.