~A valued place regarded as a refuge or place of origin.
On my 20th birthday Kelly made note that I refer to a lot of places as “home”. My parent’s house in Cincinnati was “home”, my apartment at WSU was “home” and even Kelly’s apartment in Kettering is “home”. Being the amazing best friend that she is, she gave me a set of dishes, randomly dispersed throughout the three places that I call home, so that when I am at each location I would feel more at home by using the “normal” dishware. Sweet, isn’t she?
I was filling out an application yesterday and my mom, in mistakedly hearing my question wrong, spouted off the address of this little house on school road.
“Mom, I know our address, I was asking where this store is located.”
After answering my question, she added, “You don’t consider this home do you?”
I answered before I thought (always a good technique) “No, actually, I don’t.”
Woah! Did I just say that? Wait… do I mean that? … I do! I really don’t consider this place home anymore. Every time I come here I feel like I’m a guest. I am re-explained the rules of the house, I am asked what I eat now, and my mom tells me the same stories that she tells me every time I am here. Is this a nightmare? Could I possibly be this much of a visitor in my own “home”? I do feel like a guest, a visitor, an old friend of the family’s that they’ve adopted to be “like” family.
I called Kelly at midnight last night after the house had been shut down for hours. Everyone inside was sleeping and I went outside to keep from waking anyone. I was sitting on the side steps when Kelly answered her phone and I heard her voice. Suddenly a wash of homesickness came over me. I wanted to go home. It took everything within me to keep from getting my car keys and heading to Dayton. But where would I go?
I moved out of my apartment in College Park before coming down here. Yeah, there’s still furniture left in there that I will get before I am forced to completely move out at the end of the summer. It was so weird taking all my memories from the walls and seeing my room plain… boring… and way too white for my taste. The room down here is yellow. But there are rules in hanging things on the wall. I defied the rules in putting up the huge Happy Birthday balloon that Kelly got for me on my birthday last year. Every time I see it, it reminds me that my best friend cares about me so much to go through all the trouble to get that balloon (And believe me, there was trouble to get it) in order to delight in a few seconds of joy as she watches the smile on my face.
Alas… home… my definitions of home have changed. In regards to a building that I would define as home? As of right now… Kelly’s apartment is the only home that feels like home anymore.
I realised that I am a nomad. I live out of my car; packing everything up and rolling out of any location at the drop of a hat. I’m flexible, fluid, but… without a home.
“Oh, that You would rend the heavens and come down [today]…” (Is 64:1)
I just want to go home…