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 a hero going home. The palpable image that comes to our cognizance when the expression ‘Home’ is perceived is of an edifice, 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 to order, confusion to 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 realism of pedagogy, children 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 innocuous in it and we know the whole kit and caboodle in it, but what is it that makes us feel safe and self-serving?
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 contains 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 since our childhood. It may be just a pillow that one used in pillow fights with siblings, a window beside which ones 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 with which we got through our matriculation exams.
What if someone does not live with their family? Are they homeless? Obviously no. But they have no family living with them? As mentioned earlier a home can just be someone’s smartphone home button. For them their home is the phone icon on their 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 like their next door neighbor may not feel the same way. No one wants their homes being 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 for 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 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 home our sweet home.