Home, my sweet home

Home, My Sweet Home

There is no denying the fact that when our time comes to die, we should not behave like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes, they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way.  We should sing our death song and die like heroes, going home. The palpable image that comes to our cognisance when the expression ‘Home’ is perceived is of an edifice, a chalet or a bed-sitter. A home cannot be just defined by a structure with a collection of rooms inside; for some, it can also be their smartphones or even their refugee camp. According to Melody Bettie,” Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos into order, and confusion into clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend”. 

A home is customarily distinct and comforting for any person, but for the realism of pedagogy, children's learning starts at home, flourishing greatness with gallant touch-wood in future. It can be grisly and startling where charity begins at home. A home is very exceptional as we feel innocent in it and we know the whole kit and caboodle in it, but what is it that makes us feel safe and secure?
One of the core explanations we feel safe and sound around in our homestead is because we live in it with our family, even with our kith and kin. We are in the syndicate of our family at our homes, spending most of our time in weal and woe. Our homes are special to us just because of the reason that it contain the memories that we have had growing up. Without those memories, our homes would be just structures made of brick and mortar.

Memories can be different for different people, although mostly positive. It is the memories that make our home so much more known to us. The surroundings we have been in since our childhood. It may be just a pillow that one used in pillow fights with siblings, a window beside which our dad would tell stories, our bed beside which our mom would sit all day when we were sick or even just our reading table on which we got through our matriculation exams.
As mentioned earlier, a home can just be someone’s smartphone home button. For them, their home is the phone icon on their smartphone with which they can connect to their family, and it makes their phone their home. All their memories get stacked up on their phone. Through social media, they can post their daily activities and see the activities of their family, so even their social media account could be their home.
But, anyone living in a war-torn country inside a refugee camp fighting death as if their next-door neighbour may not feel the same way. No one wants their homes to be bombed away and turned into a derelict, barren land, so they have to carry their box of memories to a refugee camp. Even then, that refugee camp is a home for that person because of the fact that they spend time with their family, although the memories may be quite dismal.

In view of the above, it is evident that a man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it that there is no place similar to our homes, but some don’t want to be in their homes, which has become a collection of their murky memories. At the end of the day, we all return to our sweet home.