The love that surrounds me in the people and places I call home.

by Rowan Westwood

During a recent trip to visit my family and returning to Bellingham, I encountered people and places that make me feel the most at home. This simple journey that I take often, turned into a reminder that home isn’t a place, its people.

As I made my way down south to visit home, I stopped in Seattle to visit one of my best friends, Zach. Though we live in different cities, we still keep in touch and talk often. We had just finished getting mimosas at Costa’s cafe in the U district of Seattle. Zach is someone who I love dearly, his love is also contagious, alongside his smile. His friendship reminds me that even though we can’t see each other a lot, he’s always with me.

When I got home, my mom started a fire with freshly chopped wood. She loves the homeyness a hearty fire adds to the atmosphere. She’s always trying to set the mood perfectly by lighting candles, making a fire, playing a good record, and setting the tone of our home. This is part of the reason I love being home so much, it’s always warm and inviting. Just like her spirit.

Caught in what it appears to be a skeptical conversation- possibly about politics, my dad (Bob) finishes his dinner. I made a North Carolina dish called mimosa chicken that night. Not knowing what to expect, it turned out pretty good.

Dad is an extraordinary cook, especially when it comes to meat dishes. He thought it was pretty good, but he’s also the kind of Dad that would never say something I made tasted bad. He places his silverware on the side of his plate parallel to each other to signify he’s done. A tradition mostly practiced in Europe, or at restaurants, but a habit of his anywhere nonetheless.

Dad constantly shares his love for food, his need to share, and his love for others around the table. Ironically, even though his plate is cleared, he leaves little room on his life plate. He always has a lot on his plate and stays busy. He helps others as often as he can and is the most selfless person I know.

After waking up the next morning while visiting home, Mom (LeeAnn) makes her famous buttermilk blueberry pancakes. I can smell the name. Her continuous love for cooking constantly fills the air every morning most weekends. These have been a classic favorite in my home ever since I can remember. She keeps this recipe in a cookbook of hers that she’ll pass down to me and my brothers. I will carry my mother’s admiration for a sit-down breakfast every Saturday for the rest of my life.

After family dinner that night, my brother, Ian, and a family friend of ours, Bryce, enjoy some eclairs together. I’ve known Bryce and Ian since they were in the womb. Their love is similar to brotherly love, even though they aren’t related. I see them both as brothers and family. As the night was winding down, their sugar cravings kicked in. My brothers and Bryce ate close to the whole package of eclairs in one sitting.

I spend a lot of time looking at the bookshelf at my parents' house. It has old books and photos that remind me of where I come from. This is a self-portrait reflecting not only myself, but my roots. My parents wedding photo propped up against some of my favorite books such as the Harry Potter series, a bible, and my grandfathers copy of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. These are some of the most cherished things I identify myself with, biologically and emotionally.

This corner speaks to various comforts of my parents' home through hidden meaning. As I walked through my childhood home, I noticed my mom recently put up this painting. This painting was previously in my grandpas house before he passed away.

Within it you can see various faces hidden in the landscape. I’ve always enjoyed looking at this and finding the faces at his house, now I do it in my parents' house. I find this symbolic because I often think of how people are present in places even when we cant see them, like my Grandpa.

Sitting on the liquor cabinet below, is my Mom’s famous Christmas cactus. She has well over 4 of these plants in our house. She gives a cutting of this plant to people she loves. Her grandmother started this tradition, and I continue to keep it alive as well as my Mom. This is a generational symbol of love. To the right of the cactus are blueprints of my dads. He has always been a builder, so our house never ceases to lack tools or blueprints lying around somewhere.

The night I returned to Bellingham, my roommate and friend, Maddison, and her boyfriend, Cameron, encountered a failed attempt at making gnocchi. She was pretty disappointed, but Cameron reassured her as he held her. Their love is still pretty new, they are still learning about each other and the love they each need. This failed attempt to make gnocchi was just a learning curve for them. Just as they are still learning the ways in which they each need to be loved.

After a long day of doing homework together, Georgia (left) and Maddison (right) enjoy some tea and wind down from the day with a heavy hearted conversation. Having friends that hear you out and listen feels good. Support and love from a friend is essential these days. The quaker oats and the metal mixing bowl are leftover from me making cookies earlier to show my appreciation for them.