Home. I am, at the moment, essentially homeless. I have a roof over my head, thanks to my lovely sister who welcomed me with open arms (Emily, you’re the best), but even though I have a place to lay my head at night, it isn’t my home.
What’s left of my belongings is neatly packed away in Rubbermaid bins and boxes, sitting on her living room floor. My backpack, still full, sits to the left, while a partially packed suitcase sits to the right. You see, my life is perpetually in motion, as one day fades into the next. There’s always somewhere to go, someone to see, and something to do – the list never ends.
The other night, while sitting in my sister’s driveway, I tried to recall the last time I truly felt at home. It was the end of September, 2003, just days after my nineteenth birthday. I stood on the sidewalk with my Mother, as we watched the windows glow from within our family home, right before we turned off the lights for the very last time.
1141 NW 8th Way – that was home. I felt safe within those four walls. Family photos, home-cooked meals, and an overwhelming sense of love lived there. That house, where we gathered for family dinners, celebrations, and went about our daily lives, offered a sense of stability – something I’ve yet to find since.
So, it leaves me to ask the question: what is home? Is home a person, place, or mindset? Is home where it’s easy to smile? You sit back and watch your 52” plasma TV from your comfortable couch with a glass of wine? Is it where you gaze up at the stars from your custom-made balcony, overlooking the lawn you’ve never cut yourself? Is it anywhere, just as long as you feel loved? Can it be a tent, a car, an alleyway? And what if it’s only you?
Sometimes I just wish I could pack my bags and go home, but in all honesty, I wouldn’t know where to go. They say, “Home is where the heart is,” but where is that when you can’t feel yours anymore? Sometimes it seems that mine left, moved to my dream house long ago, and never bothered to leave me directions.
