Home Is Where the Mind Is
“Home sweet home!” Dad roared as we walked into the shadow of the old, ivory mansion, its wooden facade fading from white to dark green moss, and the colorless wisterias slowly turning yellow, like the crispy rug of grass on the front yard. Dad shook the silver keys in his hand, composing a bittersweet melody, and opened the heavy door. Mom and Dad gasped before they coughed as a dense cloud of dust rose and settled on the dark, wooden floor. Leaving the luggage by the door, they wandered around, loving every square inch of the immense house, the floor creaking and groaning under their every step. I did not love it. I didn’t like the funeral flowers above the door, or the sharp, crystal chandeliers hanging from the unnecessarily tall ceiling. This wasn’t home. Home was small and cozy, full of friends and neighbors. If we hadn’t won the lottery, we would still be there. I would’ve used the twenty thousand for my college, for a new car, or new smartphones, but starting a new life in a foreign country is hardly what I had in mind.