My home stands at the very end of a long, windy, road named Presidential Drive.  Located on a culdesac, the comforting nature of the neighborhood surrounds it. The name Presidential sounds royal and upscale. My home is elegant, but not flashy. With its light tan color and bold, black shutters, it stands out from the others. The beautiful flowers planted by my mother in the spring bring butterflies and hummingbirds to its windows in the summer.

Each time I walk through the door, I am flooded with endless memories from my life.  I have taken my first steps, spoken my first words and grown up in this very house. The oldest memories that I can remember have been in this home. My only home since I was born.

The steps near the front door, leading to the second floor, bring gloomy memories of “time outs” as a toddler. As a punishment, my mother would tell me to sit on those stairs for ten minutes, which always felt like an eternity.

The living room. A place of comfort and peace. With its large brown leather couch and television, it is one of the few rooms in the house where my brother and I actually got along. We sat still like couch potatoes for hours on end watching episodes of “Spongebob” when we were young and “Friends” as teenagers.

The kitchen is an intersection. People constantly coming, going and passing through. Whether it be to work at the kitchen table or grab food on their way out of the house. It is the social gathering area. Where the delicious smell of food derives from as my mom cooks for our many guests on holidays.

My room. My favorite room in the house that is the one place that is all mine. It is a fortress that makes me feel safe and relaxed. It is my space to do what I want and decorate it how I want. Trophies cover the shelves and medals hanging from the walls. These trophies represent my love and passion for dance. Each one has a story of how I earned it. Time passes like a race car on the track when I am in my room.