Home in the simplest form is the ranch style building on west 7th in a tiny town that no one really knows. All 500 residents know that’s where I grew up. It’s where I cut my teeth, climbed trees and rode my bike barefoot. It’s the familiar side door I always entered through to find mom cooking something delicious and dad relaxing, sweaty and greasy after a long day at the shop. Even though I haven’t lived there for going on 6 years now it’s still the first thing that comes to mind when I think of home. I’m not sure when or if I’ll ever transition that association to the home I’ve built with my husband, the little bungalow on Arlington St. Maybe there is an equation involving years lived in, mortgage payments or persons shared with but maybe not. I know that I sleep better there with my head on my fancy pillow and our bodies curled just right, but that doesn’t make it home does it?
I have a love/hate relationship with cheesy anecdotes. For example that “home is where the heart” s___. I don’t believe that for a second, but to say that home has nothing to do with the heart would be foolish. Home is so much more than a building or my favorite place to sleep. Home is all the little affections that put my mind at ease. Home is the arms of a faithful friend, where I can claim sanctuary and plead temporary insanity. Home is lying next to him on the couch knowing that I don’t have to say or do anything to sustain our perfect harmony, my sweet contentment. Home is being a black sheep in this whole walk of life and still feeling a deep sense of belonging. Home is my refuge, my haven, whatever that might look like on a given day. Home is wholeness.