The experience of coming home is a peculiar one, seemingly insignificant in all aspects, yet it creates a certain feeling of content within me. For me, homecoming is quite simple: I pack up necessities for my stay at home and sit in a car for an hour until I reach my house. As a result, I begin to wonder what it could possibly be that makes such an event noteworthy. It certainly can’t be the car ride, for it is monotonous and quite uneventful except for the occasional car crash on the side of the road. Most times, I will sit in silence, staring out the window as music plays through my headphones. No, homecoming must be something more significant than a simple car ride.

            The ultimate purpose of traveling is to reach one’s destination, whether it is a school, a party, or a restaurant. In any case, the most significant part of a trip is not the traveling itself, but rather the place where one is traveling to. In my case, the final destination of my trip is my house. Yet, in my mind, when traveling back to my house, I perceive my destination as my home, rather than my house. This causes me to wonder whether my house can fully represent my own home.

            A house is primarily a shelter where one might reside and is, perhaps, nothing more than that. Thoreau describes housing as one of four elements required in life (food, shelter, clothing, and fuel). I am inclined to believe that a house is a necessity, and maybe a luxury in certain cases. Thoreau resided in the woods for two years within a house he built himself, yet he did not consider his dwelling near Walden Pond his home. Thoreau’s home was in Concord, and his stay near Walden Pond was more of an extended vacation then anything: “The present was my next experiment of this kind, which I purpose to describe more at length, for convenience putting the experience of two years into one” (873).

            Therefore, we cannot consider just any place where we might live a home, but rather think about what it means to have a home. The homeless are called such because they are without homes, despite any shelter that they might have. Perhaps a kindly person might take in one of these vagrants and give him a place to stay, but even in this situation, the beneficiary still lacks a home. So what, then, is it that makes a place a home? I believe it is that our home is the place that we have known most or all of our entire life, and the sheer familiarity and comfort that we can receive from that place is what makes it home.