Most people will drive by the little enclosed mobile home park without a second thought or glance. When I drive by it I think of a second home. In the corner of the park nestled between rows of plumerias growing, stands the place that had been apart of my life for eleven years. Growing up, my parents worked a lot so much of my time was spent at my grandparents house along with my brother.
Summers were spent swimming and then coming back to hot dogs being grilled by my grandpa. They were running around in front of the house chasing lizards who were only trying to hide from the sun. Winters were spent curled up on the couch watching movies after a homecooked dinner. They were my grandma teaching me how to bake cookies and brownies, until I was able to bake them on my own.
Holidays were always spent at my grandparents house as well. The Fourth of July was spent laid out on the street with blankets wrapped around our shoulders while the fireworks lit up our faces and the sky. Thanksgiving and Christmas always consisted of extended family coming over and crowding around in the dining room to laugh and talk with one another.
When I walk into the house I always go and sit in the same spot, on the same couch, and immediately feel at home. When I think about it now, I can smell the food in the oven that my grandma has cooked and I can hear the sound of my grandpa clicking away on the computer as he plays his card games.
These are the things that flash through my mind when I drive by the complex or think about that house. A warm feeling floods through me at these thoughts and I know that that little house is my home.