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Tonight I was in a home where nine kids grew up. It was loud. Everyone brought a friend. It made me feel...

And then I come home to write this ... because it's still Friday.

Home is a house where everybody is welcome. 3 am. Trampoline. Playhouse. Tanning bed (though not I).

Home is everyone talking at once. The voices swell. The speaking stick is passed. Thrown. Swung ... at you.

Home is a car driving back and forth. Cheerleading. Softball. Dance. Softball. Basketball. Softball. Secrets are told: "What is said in this car STAYS in this car." Right, Mama Sherry? Oh, and there were three little girls from school.

Home is a bleacher. Field two. Field three. Field six. Or a concession stand.

Home is yelling. For her. To her. Love her: "You got this, Liz. It's all you!"

Home is a dirt road, yelling, "Amen, amen, amen. A-sing it over." Singing, "God is in control. We believe that His children will not be forsaken." Dancing, "Whoa-oh-oh-oh, whoa-oh-oh-oh. Do you wanna revolution?!"

Home is a four-wheeler. Leg scraped. Clothes muddied. Calf burned. Broke down.

Home is a drink. Large sweet tea, please. Styrofoam cup. Little red chicken in the letter C. You know the one.

Home is a living room. Candy bars under the microwave. Sweet tea in fancy glasses. Permanent marker atop the china cabinet. JCPenney catalog to be marked up.

Home is a people. A mama, a sister, an aunt to top all aunts, a grandma so fierce, the most handsome (may he rest in peace), one boy, two honorary sisters, the nephews.

Home is Cannady.