Home. We hear rumor that the heart may be located there. That there’s no place like it. And it means something different to each and every one of us.
Let me tell you what home means to me. When I think of home, I think of my First Piece of Furniture. A few years ago, my then-fiance and I realized we needed a real couch. We had dressed up his old futon, and it served its purpose: watching TV, doing homework, eating. But—no arm rests? Come on. We were growns-up! So we went to Ikea, the growns-up place, and purchased our First Piece of Furniture. It came with an ottoman and a chaise. We lived on that couch, and still do. Every once in a while, we’d flip the cushions and pillows to avoid sitting on the lumpy, misshapen bits. Some items that have found a permanent home on our couch: my husband’s massage stick (tagline: “It’s a toothbrush! For your muscles!”); our cat’s food, including the brand she absolutely will not eat (we keep it there in the hopes she’ll change her mind even though we know cats don’t change their minds about anything, ever); and a trigger-point cane (guess whose?). The other day, my 4-month-old, battling her first ear infection and cold, was lounging on the chaise with me. When I picked her up, I noticed that her diaper had failed to contain its contents. The couch had been severely soiled. Ah, well, I thought. Guess it’s time to flip the cushion.
We want to know what home means to you. Do you have a favorite room or a spot you habitually seek out at the breakfast bar/couch/table? Are you finally remodeling the kitchen after giving your faded sunflower wallpaper angry glares for the last 25 years? Send your photos to firstname.lastname@example.org or tweet ‘em to @PhillyWeekly, along with a few lines about what you like best about being at home. We’ll pick our favorites and spotlight a few in PW!