Home
I’m unsure what is worse: living far away or very close to your parents.
Too close, and you take them for granted.
Years go by without gratitude or consideration.
On the other hand, too far away and you miss them every second. Hoping that the pain is worth it for a better life. An easier life.
Moving from one country to another, then back again, is something I have done many times in my life. I’ve packed up my life over five times, and moved across the globe. I’ve appraised the sentimentality of each belonging, the quality of each friendship. So much so, that the meaning of home has transformed into a feeling rather than a tangible experience, an address, or a group of people. Home isn’t where the heart is, home is where you are free. You take off the many layers and personalities that weigh you to the pillars of societal norms and you can take a giant breath of the freshest air- because home is a feeling.
Home feels like whatever it is meant to feel like. Home feels like cinnamon candles struggling to stay lit on the kitchen counter as the last of the wick pulls the flame to its end. Home feels like dogs jumping at your feet as you return from a stressful day. Home feels like football fans on TV roaring faintly in the background as the bacon splatters on the frying pan while it cooks. Home feels like waiting for the bread to toast, but being careful because the settings have been faulty for years and you will fix it tomorrow. Home feels little and small. Strong and weak. Scary and comforting.
You know you’re home when you don’t want to leave.
You’ll have to leave.
But you’ll always be back.
You’ll always come back home.
