Sweet Savannah Grace

As a child, home was two parents, two sisters. A pool. It was extended family, cousins and family friends, dinner parties. Vacations. Yet I felt so alone. I felt no love.

As a young adult, home was 14 different places. Home was anywhere I thought I could find love. God did I look. From the East Coast to the West. Twice. People asked why I kept moving. I could never really explain. I was looking for home. What I wanted one to feel like anyway.

At 35 years old, I had my daughter, Savannah Grace. My world. Home became a place I needed to provide for her. The struggles of being alone - no family to help me as a single mom, I did the best I could. Armed with a Bachelor's Degree and quick wit, I found myself bartending to provide a modest safe, loving home for us.

Finally finding a job where I made a very good living financially, albeit sales (ugh), home became an adorable house we loved. Even a pool in our backyard. I was so happy she had a home...one I was trying to live up to. We decided to move to the beautiful mountains in Western North Carolina...and I was even happier I could provide a dream home for us both...

Then I got sick. I got so sick I could not lift my head. I could not stay awake for a week straight. Home became a place where my child was making her own food and bringing me a facecloth for my head. I had zero energy for months. I lost my job. I lost my ability to provide for my daughter. I lost our home.

I should be saying how grateful I am that we did find somewhere to stay. I should not feel shame or humiliation. I should not be crying every day. The home we live in is not ours. It is clear we are unwelcome, but with pity, we have a room we stay in. My little girl said today something about going home. I did not like that she referred to this awful place as our home. It is a temporary situation I told her. This is not our home. It is just the place we sleep at right now. But it's difficult to keep a positive outlook. I want our home back. Our home.

She keeps me grounded. Ironically, her mattress is on the floor. She says it's like camping. We eat terrible, unhealthy processed food that is available to us. She says it's yummy in her tummy. Every day I cry that we have no home, but I refuse to say homeless. Savannah is my home. And I am hers.

We still do our gratitude rock every day. We say we are grateful for a roof over our heads. We say we are grateful for food in our bellies. We say we are grateful for each other.

And in our prayers to God and gratitude to the Universe, we always end with, "Please always keep us happy, healthy, safe, and always together." I would have to say this is now the definition of home to me.

We will get a physical home again. And when we dive into the pool or gaze out over our beautiful view of the mountains, we will still be grateful for a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. But for now, no matter where we are, as long as I hear my Sweet Savannah Grace laughing and I get to hug her tight, I know that I am home.