Home

I wish we had a climbing tree. Our house is up in the mountains and there’s forest all around, but no trees for climbing. They are too young. Too thin. It’s days like this, when the shouting begins, that I would climb the grand maple in the old front yard and pretend I was hiding behind enemy lines.

I used to dream about going off to war.

Here there are no trees for climbing. I stay in my room, the one place in this home without ghosts of past arguments. My room, with the well-loved copies of Frost and Thoreau nestled next to new editions of Leav and Steifvater. My house-that-is-not-a-home.

I used to not want a home. I had planned to go off to college, get rich by making YouTube videos or by writing a book, and then travel everywhere. I wanted to leave before roots start growing beneath my feet. Leave before I could be convinced to stay. Part of me still wants a vagabond life, but now even more of me is scared.

Scared that I’ll never touch down or find an anchor. Afraid that I’ll float through my life unattached, listening to Rachmaninoff and thinking of the fights that they didn’t want to win but were too proud to lose.

I know what I want, now. I don’t want to go off to war, I couldn’t stand the heartache. I don’t want to travel aimlessly, I connect with places far too easily. I’m not sure if I want a house or an apartment or a cottage or a farm far away from civilization, but I know this—

I want to find a place to call home.

And maybe (maybe), someone to share it with.