I could never truly define what home was to me

It wasn’t the cluttered mess of due payments and screaming advertisements on our old dinner table

Home was never the four walled structure I slept in, nor was it the way someone said my name

I could never say it was someone’s arms, or an old photograph

Home came to be the fresh Italian breeze that blew as soon as you stepped off that 8 hour flight

Home was the dark linoleum glittered with white specks, old and worn out from the many travelers that had run through

It was the high ceilings and white and green color scheme that embodied the airport

Home was the green baggage check and green automatic doors, my grandparents standing teary-eyed, eagerly awaiting me, enveloping me in months of lost memories, moments we’d never be able to fully share

Home came to be the gorgeous chaos of sweet reunions, the comings and goings of those that would never linger

It became my personal haven for my warm memories to rest in, my destination for love and tears, for acceptance and truth, but most importantly, it became my home

-Giorgia Piantanida

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