home

What makes home, "home"?
...
My interpretation of the word changed multiple times since I left "home" to come to college. I thought it meant different things at different times, based on the different experiences I had.

My dad came to the States to visit me exactly a week ago, and we have spent a very rich, full, and amazing week together. My apartment became "home". Nudging him every time he fell asleep on the couch and started to snore, waking up to his smiling face, his big, paternal, protective and loving hugs, being able to talk to him about anything and everything and nothing... Suddenly, the place I felt so comfortable in, where I thought I didn't need to be "home" for a while longer because I was doing just as fine all the way across the ocean from it, became "home". Yes, it was still lacking stuff, like my mom or Baskan (my dog brother), but it was much more of a home than it ever was before.

Maybe the reason I feel this way is because of who my dad is.
He is the most awesome, amazing, silliest man I have ever met, with the hugest heart I have ever seen, and there are no words for me to describe how thrilled I am, and how lucky and blessed I feel for having had the chance and luck to be born as his daughter, and to call him my dad and my friend.

I love him as much as I love salt (a measurement that only he can understand because he's the one who told me the story when I was in elementary school). He's my home, and I've had the luck to be home for a week now, and that makes me happy:)