Sunshine filters through the blinds of the playroom, the light blinding as it reflects off the pages of the worn book. The warmth of summertime clings to my skin as I race to finish the stack of books I have borrowed from the library. My little sister is practicing the piano in the background but is instead throwing a tantrum as mommy cooks. The radio is playing in the kitchen at a low level so as not to disturb my sister’s disastrous plinking of piano keys. She is trying to play a beginner’s version of Ode to Joy by Beethoven, but her mistakes are jarring even to the untrained ear. Mommy will not be happy when she hears the comments our piano teacher gives after our next lesson. I flip a page in my book, the adventures of a boy hero are far more interesting than listening to my sister whine about practice. “Piano isn’t even an essential skill, why do I have have to learn it?” my little sister asks over and over. The sun has set by the time I look up again from my book, it is a different book, and the stack has been depleted by three in a matter of hours. I at six years old can read up to five books in a day without fail. Daddy is home now, and as the front door unlocks, I rush to hide in a nightly game of hide-and-seek. Where should I hide today?

Home at six years old is my childhood home. Home is warm and loud. It is always bright and mischievous. It is forever a blazing summer day, and the world is tinged in pink.

~~~
Sunshine filters through the blinds of my best friend’s living room, the light blinding as it reflects off her wooden floorboards. The slight warmth of spring is absent in the ever-present chill of her house as I rapid-fire message after message at our other friend. She has One Direction’s latest album playing on her iPod Touch as her grandfather mows the lawn. The TV is playing a Chinese drama quietly as to not disturb our gossiping. Our other friend has a crush on a boy, and we want to know all the juicy details before everyone else. Not that anything is surprising, this boy is the sixteenth boy she’s had a crush on. My best friend and I roll our eyes at each other – we’ve heard these exact words before and we will surely listen to them again. I scroll through my Tumblr, the videos of One Direction’s latest concert are far more entrancing than my other friend’s complaints. “Why won’t he like me back, I’m not that horrible am I?” my friend asks my best friend and I as if we could see into the mind of the boy. The afternoon sun is high in the sky, and I am hit with the sudden urge to sit in my best friend’s yard instead. I, at fourteen years old, could spend hours with my friends without getting tired of them. As the door to the yard clicks open, I turn to find my best friend asking me: “Where should we go tomorrow?”

Home at fourteen is the time that I spend at my best friend’s side. Home is comfort and patience. There is always laughter and teasing. It is forever a bright spring day, and the sky is still blue.

~~~
Sunshine filters through the blinds of his bedroom, the light awkwardly splashed against the wall. The chill of winter seeps into through his window as I sit on his bed, playing with his Saint Bernard. The occasional video plays from his computer as he anxiously scrolls through his Facebook. Some K-Pop song is playing in the background of our conversation, quiet enough to be soothing, quiet enough to be forgotten. We catch up on the last five years – he has depression and anxiety, I have depression and anxiety – as if we lived parallel but disconnected lives. My best friend will not be happy to hear that I am with him, but that’s okay, I just won’t tell her. I blink at the ceiling, the thoughts racing through my mind are far more distracting than the fact that I am lying next to him. “Did you know that I still remember every little thing about you?” he whispers as my mind echoes I love you into the void. The evening sun is setting, and I am hit with the reality that in fifteen minutes, I have to leave this bubble of security. I, at twenty-two, crave the way that being held by him eases the pain that life gives me. As I start the car, I ask myself, “Where will I find that safety again in this life?”

Home at twenty-two is the short hours that I spent in his arms. Home is safe and soothing. There is always tranquillity and peace. It is a forever a winters day, and it will warm my entire being until summer returns.

~~~

Home will always be warm, always be happy, always be safe. It is tied less to the place and more so to the people. It is tied less to history and more so to the present. Home is where I can exist, exactly as I am and exactly as I am meant to be. The definition of home has accumulated new meanings over the years, but they will always be grounded in memories. The people in these memories become the characters in the stories we tell other people, and in becoming a story, the people we love continue to shape the way we define home. No matter what, home always has sunlight.