I went home for an extended Thanksgiving weekend. I left Wednesday afternoon and got back to my place on Sunday evening. It’s been a while since I got to spend that much time at home with my family. It was great to see everyone. I need to spend more time with my family. I got to finally see my parent’s new house. It’s mostly done now and it’s beautiful. It’s just sort of strange since it will never be my home. I’ll have a “guest room” to sleep in when I visit it but for the most part, all of my things are getting packed away. I have a lot of it here and the rest will go into storage somewhere.
The next time I go “home” I’ll have to drive past the place I grew up and go into a different house. That was Home from the time I was 4 years old until I left for college at 18, and even then I went home for summers and Christmas and whatnot. I’m not really sure where Home has been since then. My old apartment felt like Home but I’ve felt sort of… well, homeless since then. I don’t especially like where I live right now. It’s cold, darker than I would like, small, has purple carpet, and it’s just not me. I haven’t hung much of anything on the walls in the year and a half that I’ve lived here and that bugs me when other people do it, but hanging things sort of confirms that I live here. I didn’t even finish unpacking until after I had lived here for over a year. So, that begs the question: where is my home?
I used to look out my bedroom window when I was growing up. My window faced north and I could always see the big dipper and the North Star. I was safe at home in the center of my universe. The stars up there are brilliantly bright since there is virtually no light pollution to block them out at night. But I realize now that even if the stars fade, they are always there.
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