Home is more...

Home...

I like to think that at one point in my life I had a grasp on that.

If even for a moment.

Even daring to utter those words can sometimes feel like a lie.

I'm happy. And I mean that. In the ways that matter.

I. am. happy.

But, no. I am not home. I don't think I've been there for quite sometime.

The last time I remember being home was on a hot summer day in August.

My dad and I had been binge watching Burn Notice reruns all morning. I begged him over and over to take me to a movie, or go mini golfing like we always did. But, he was tired. He was groggy from the meds that he had been taking since his operation. I understood, but only as much as an 11 year old girl could.

He never got irritated with me.

With the begging and all.

He never complained or got aggravated.

Instead he tried to amuse me, in all of his pain.

I remember that... he always made me laugh even when he was hurting.

When he finally fell asleep during a super intense fight scene, I knew he wasn't messing around. I knew then that something was wrong. But, I didn't wake him. I let him sleep. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't.

I hadn't told my mom.

When she asked me how the day went.

I didn't tell her that something was wrong.

He was walking around and talking... but he felt like a zombie.

A hollow version of the father I knew.

I ignored it.

I went to sleep and kept my "goodnight" to my dad quick so that he could get his rest. I don't remember the last thing I said to him. In the morning when my mom woke me, everything seemed normal. She had to sleep in my bed so she wouldn't open dads stitches. He was still sleeping silently on the bed.

"CALL 911!" The scream didn't sound like it was coming from my mom.

But it was.

It was a simple command.

But what did it mean?!

"WHAT?!" I shouted back.

"OH, GOD!" Her voice shattered loudly.

I picked up the phone and dialed.

Without listening to the other line, I ran to my mom and handed her the phone.

That's when I saw him.

The horrible feeling from the day before came back to choke me. The zombie that I had seen yesterday seemed to have manifested in our sleep. He was blue and unmoving. Eyes glassy and white. I knew something was wrong. The moment spun out of control and before I could grasp what had happened...

Home was gone.

Home had left me.

And I'll never have that back.

...

But, what I have now... That is so much different.

15 years later and I can still see it all happen as if I were 11.

The tightness in my throat is the same and the tears still hurt.

But, I have something new.

Something I know he would be proud of.

My husband sits in the other room as I type this and as painful and beautiful as it is, I have a new home. One that took so much to build and open up to. A home that I didn't want to walk into because the reality was I'd have to leave behind the other.

Home has never been a place to me.

And as cliche as it is to say someone is home.

We all know that it's true.

It's more than some tangible building that we make up.

It's more than one person.

It's the vulnerability to love again and again when it seems impossible.

Home is acceptance.

Home is peace.

Home is more.