If I close my eyes, I can still have a clear picture in mind of my first home. I walk in the door and see a brown sofa surrounding a low glass-top wooden table. To the right of the living room is my first bedroom. It's empty, but it's where my earliest memories are.
There is the dining room table where I celebrated birthdays, and where I cried on Halloween-when I didn't want to wear the skirt my mother made for me. I always liked standing on that table because it made me feel tall and strong. If I sit at this table, I can see my favorite room in the house, my parents' room. It is simple: a brown wooden dresser lines the right side of the wall next to a television and a couple of photos of my grandparents on each side. Their bed is my safe zone. I can jump on it anytime - waking up my parents if I am scared or if I have an important announcement that cannot wait until the morning.
I'm lucky because I know my first home still exists. It exists in my mind and heart, on a physical property(住宅) on West 64th street on the western edge of Los Angeles. It is proof I lived, I grew and I learned.
Sometimes when I feel lost, I lie down and shut my eyes, and I go home. I know it's where I'll find my family, my dogs, and my belongings. I purposely leave the window open at night because I know I'll be blamed by Mom. But I don't mind, because I want to hear her say my name, which reminds me I'm home.
43. Why does the author call her parents' bed her "safe zone"(Paragraph 3)?
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