What makes a house a home?

A friend of mind keeps posing this question of me as he keeps referring to my apartment as my home and I keep defensively arguing with him, calling it a holding tank for my things. I thought that might change after the windows opened and the shower drained and the pictures and shelves were hung. But no.

While it feels much more homey, it still isn't my home.

I suppose everyone's idea of home is different, but for me, a home is a place my family and I will craft a life together. Where my husband and children will come together and create a life, solve our problems, laugh together, and ultimately just be a family together.

It's impossible to be a family when you are but one person.

Which is why as much as I like my apartment with its Georges* and the shelves and windows that open and the shower that drains, it cannot ever be considered home for me. It's merely a vessel for my things. A space between the next space that holds my things. Until I find that person that I can build a home with and start a family with.

Anyway, this is why I always tell you that my house is not my home, nor will it ever be. And yes, of course, I have it picked out in my head, and not in that maple cabinet kind of way, but in that full-of-laughter and love way.

My home will be full of love.



*All my plants are named George and all are beautiful, healthy, and lustrous.