I was recently visiting one of my friends from high school. While we were talking, I noticed that I had to clarify which home I was talking about because I currently have two places that I call home: my parent’s house and my own apartment. I’ve thought about this many times before, but for some reason it really struck me this time.

The connotations of “home” are different to everyone.

To me, home is:

A place you have a key to, but you don’t have to use it because the door is opened by a loved one before you get to it.

Where sympathy and cough syrup that tastes like liquified cherry candy is readily available when you’re sick.

Where people who love you and who you love are.

Where people listen to you and sometimes gently tell you that you are wrong.

Where you can wake up in the morning and feel safe.

Where you can get up in the middle of the night and find your way to the bathroom without opening your eyes.

Where you can feel content while being confined indoors because of weather.

Where you keep your most powerful memories.

The definition of “home” from Oxford Dictionaries is cold and does not necessarily fit in with the connotations of the word. It says that home is “the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.” I haven’t been living at my apartment for very long and it already feels  like home.

One definition that I like uses it as a verb: return by instinct to its territory after leaving it. This “home” obvious refers to animals, like geese that return to a certain place for the summer. But I think it could be applied to humans because after all….

Home is a place that we return to.