Let’s go home.
But where is home?
Home is where there is soft light and big pillows and wine. Home is where there is someone to welcome us and laugh with and sleep next to us, too. Home is where there is stuff and things with stories that we remember, it’s where we have memories. That is where home is.
But I have lots of places like that. Can a person have lots of places that are home?
Only if they’re lucky.
Feeling kinda conflicted about home these days. Minnesota, Boston, Tunbridge Wells. Family, Friends, David. Heart, Hands, Soul.
We returned home from the Wild West late Sunday night. We were exhausted but still managed to stay up too late drinking wine and laughing about the journey with my father, who missed us while we were away. It felt good to be back, good to be home, and good to take a hot shower and sleep under warm covers on a real bed.
But I’m not home. Not really, not anymore.
Sleeping in my childhood bedroom triggers all kinds of memories. Memories of growth and impatience, memories of writing page after page in my journal about how I was going to leave this place and make something of myself on the east coast. The early morning sound of my dad readying and then leaving for work, the whine of my mom’s espesso machine as she froths milk for her breakfast latte, the endless ticking of antique clocks that give this house a heartbeat– they’re all so familiar that I feel as if the last eight years have never happened. I’ve been here, I’ve never left, and I’m yearning again for somewhere else, for another home.
I wonder, sometimes, will I ever be happy in just one place? I don’t know the answer right now, but even though I’m longing to go home, I’m simultaneously happy to be home. It’s a comfortable confusion and I’m lucky to have a home in many places.