This Thanksgiving, I, for the first time, did not spend the beloved holiday with my family.

The break was so short, it wasn’t worth flying home to New Jersey and back.

I was graciously hosted by a friend of mine and her family in Minnesota.

While it was wonderful to leave campus and the dorms (they were starting to feel like a semi-luxurious prison), the true pleasures were quite odd and simple.

By the title of this blog entry, the thing that amazed and befuddled me most was the toilet paper.

I forgot that toilet paper is supposed to be more than ¼ ply and soft. Warm. Loving.

I felt bad over-using it so I rationed out small portions, instead of the wads I’d gotten used to pulling back while on campus.

Why had the toilet paper confused and excited me? What was so intriguing about a soft clean?

Home. It felt like home.

Although I have a belief that home is not a place, but rather is the people I love (and who love me back) and certain feelings, home can be found in materials too.

I took for granted the little things that made me feel comfortable. To have them in my hands and to NOT be in my “home” was hard for me to understand.

I took for granted the idea that home means access to food, just a staircase away. Not an elevator and a tunnel away.

Home was a never ending trail of soft carpet and comfy chairs, beckoning me to feel comfortable.

Home was someone, out of their own desires, catering to me.

Home was photographs lining the wall and the stories about the day.

My idea of home is always changing and growing to accustom my changing and growing life.

If toilet paper made with clouds and fluff makes me feel at home — then home shall it be.

 (source:http://cdn.sheknows.com)