One time I was eating snails with my grandma and she wouldn’t stop staring at me with a strange look on her face. I tried to ignore it and continued eating my snails. Then something slimy was moving on my hand and I jumped from my chair. My grandma started laughting so hard that I knew that she was the one who put a live snail on my plate. Whenever I eat snails, I still look carefully at my plate waiting to see something moving.
That’s what I remember. I don’t remember a house. I remember my grandma. I remember returning from school and having a snack with her in the kitchen. I remember staying home at days where I didn’t have school and have lunch with her in the living room while watching National Geographic.
That’s my home.
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