Personal Narrative: A Place To Call Home

Ever since I was born, I was a military brat. Not knowing where to call home, or if any place could be home, I moved. I moved six times, four of those places were towns that nobody could think about. Germany, North Carolina, Alaska, North Carolina, Germany, and Alaska, yet no place to call home. May 22, 1999, my first day on this world; Kronach hospital had its first American baby in their hands, yet they acted like I was a different species. The only event I remember was when I was about one. While I was one, I grabbed everything in my reach, even a grill handle. As a baby, I did not know that the handle was moving, the grill top had smashed my thumb. Ever since that event, I now have a starfish mark on the side of my right thumb from where the stiches were.
I was in North Carolina when my younger sister was born. Not even 24 hours after, 9/11 struck, it was a time I don’t remember. Not much happened for a while; we lived in North Carolina till about 2 ½ to about 3 years, then we moved to Alaska. The only memory that I have of living here was when I was about 5, when my head struck a frozen pipe. I remember screaming bloody murder, I remember my parents running down the stairs and my mom running towards me. My dad ran towards me with a rag to try to stop my left eyebrow from bleeding anymore. It seems crazy that an eyebrow would bleed that much, but by the time my mother and I got to the hospital, the rag was full of blood. I had to get stiches, but I just remember leaving the hospital with