There’s no place like home. There’s something about slipping into your own bed, under your own roof, with all the little imperfections you’ve come to know and love. It’s where you hear the creak in the floorboard that no one else notices, where the hum of the fridge feels oddly comforting, and where the neighbors’ dog barking at nothing is just part of the soundtrack of your life. It’s not perfect, but it’s yours.
My grandmother used to say, “If you hung your dirty laundry on the line and your neighbors did the same, you’d take your own laundry back inside every single time.” It’s funny how right she was. Sure, I’ve got my own set of problems—the leaky faucet, the stack of bills, the to-do list that never seem to resolve—but when I think about trading them for someone else’s troubles, I realize how well I know mine. They fit me in a way, like an old pair of shoes that have molded to my feet, even if they’re scuffed up and worn thin.
And that’s the thing about home. It’s not just the walls and the roof—it’s the life that happens inside. It’s where the coffee tastes better, even if it’s just because you’re drinking it out of your favorite chipped mug. It’s where you’re reminded to be thankful for every little drop, even the ones that aren’t easy to love.
No matter how far I go or how shiny the world outside might seem, there’s no feeling like pulling back into the driveway, stepping through that familiar door, and knowing you’re right where you belong. HOME
Jennifer Davis
971-400-6420
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