There is a difference between a house and a home.
A house is a place you live. A home is more than that: it’s a feeling, a sense of belonging, an overwhelming abundance of happiness. Home for me is any car ride with loud music and singing, it’s an Applebees’ romantic dinner for two, it’s swimming in the lake at my camp fully clothed on the last day, it’s some random person’s basement at 12:30 am, it’s fireworks on Fourth of July, it’s Italy, it’s the airport after not seeing my best friend for a month, it’s EVERYWHERE.
A place doesn’t make a home, people do.
In Oyster Bay, it is an actual requirement that you must live and breathe Billy Joel so naturally, his song “Youre My Home” inspired me to write this article; and as he says on track, “Home is just another word for you.”
The people I call home know exactly who they are.
They’re the people who make me consistently belly laugh, who are there for me because they wanna be. They’re the people I can go six months without talking to, yet not a thing has changed when we do. Nothing and no one can compare to the people that can make you feel content and comfortable with just their presence. They’re irreplaceable. They’re everything. But most importantly, they’re the people who remind me that I’m never alone. And thank you doesn’t begin to cover what I have to say to them. But I’ll try anyway.