Land. A simple word yet it holds so much emphasis. Defined as, “a solid part of the surface of the earth.” When I think of land, though, I think of home. I think of that place where the water runs cold out of the tap until the pipe clears. I think of that place where no matter how sick you are, it is always the best place to be. I think of that place where it does not matter who you are, because when you are there, you are perfect, loved, flawless, and happy. I think of that place that I cannot wait to get to every day when I am tired from working. Home. Land. I love the sound of these words. My land is borrowed from my parents; it has a house, a garage, a deck, a porch and a clothesline where I have hung clothes to dry for over 20 years. I was raised on this land, in this home, and even though I live there alone now, I still hear the echoes of their voices in the walls. I realize the great blessing I have because some people do not have land or a home; I have both. However, every time I trim my rosebush or dig in the dirt with my niece, I am reminded of how grateful I am to have this land and that home. I only wish that I could give my kind of land to the rest of the world.