that red building called as home

“Even though that building is un-awesome like, according to your dictionary, Fleur, but it is still your home, where your heart belongs to.”

My mom likes to say that. And I kind of agree with that. My mom used to live in a bad-shaped house, in suburb. She lived there with her siblings, parents, and dogs. Yes, dogs. A dozen of dogs. The house was two-story. The second one consisted of bedroom and the first one consisted of everything–kitchen, living room, dining room, bathroom, etc. But she loved there. I loved to hear her story about her life when she still lived there. She told many amazing stories–one of them was she loved to sleep on the motorcycle; because the bedroom in second-floor was too hot–no air conditioner at that moment–and the exhaust of the motorcycle was cold.

Because I’m currently too lazy to do research, I just tell what I think. Alright? Houses in 1970s were mostly two-story, or even three-story. The most luxurious houses were, colonial heritage or three-story building. Nah, as far as I can remember, those are. I’ll ask my father about this more.

There’s a famous quote about home, I think you all have heard about this. Home is where the heart is. If you are with your family, and that’s where your heart is, then it’s home. As simple as that. If you are with people you love the most, then it’s called home. Even though your house is as big as the White House, but if your heart isn’t there… well. No offense, alright?

Ehm! So our lovely prompt is about home. If I’m going to travel a yearlong, what would I bring to make me remember “home”? Simple. It’s photo albums, consist of memories of people I love and amazing memories they contain.

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