The Place I Call Home

by Eric Liang

Maison du Brem
Image Credits to Rene.

It was rundown. It was always cold because there was no heater. The ceiling was worn out. Pieces of paint either hung loosely or they’ve given up and fell to the ground to join their fallen comrades. The only pieces of furniture in the room are four, no six chairs, a table, and a lamp. The place was rundown. The place was not nice. The place was a wreck. The place was somewhat cold and empty. Compared to the houses that surrounds it, nice and big with chimneys on top with heaters built in, this place is an eyesore to those who walk by it. The place is rundown, but it is the place that I call “home.”

It may not be the greatest place to live in, it maybe not be the best, but at least I had a place to return to that I can call “home.” It shielded me from the rain. It shielded me from many things. It protected me from the outside world. It is the place in which I call home. It is the place where I can return, eat at, sleep at, and wake up at. It is the place where I live, and it is the only place where I can go. The rundown room in which is not the greatest of places to be at is but yet the best place to live at, and that is my home. Not on the streets, not in the wilderness, not in the alleyways, but in here, in this rundown room of mine in which I can call, “my home”.

Creative Commons License
The Place I Call Home by Eric Liang is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at