The Essence of "Home"

What could it really mean - home?

Is it a place? Feelings? Memories?

To me, Home is a nebulous collection of

a great many personal things.

Sometimes, home is a blanket

for the soul.

Sometimes, it's a dark place that shackles me

to memories worth forgetting.

It can be a place of respite for my heart,

an origin point that I can never shake.

A place that can can ground me in this chaotic world,

where all of my experiences and changes

can be seen in perspective.

Home is a place where my anxieties and stresses

can't reach me,

at least not as easily.

Sometimes, home to me is that feeling I get

when I've had a rough day at work, but know

that after clocking out, I'll get to drive back

to sanctuary and comfort.

The sounds of the air conditioner when I'm trying to

drift off to sleep,

or the nostalgic memories of the past that visit me

in my dreams.

The smile of my grandfather as he

cheered me on,

or the trouble I'd get into

with my sister and brother

as we pretended the world was whatever we wanted it to be

that day.

But home was also defined

by the contrast of what it wasn't.

Feeling alone in a crowd,

being rejected, isolated, punished for things I didn't understand,

It was defined by being a place where

the words and the fists of others,

instruments that regrettably shaped a part of me,

couldn't find me, as long as I was there,

just as we couldn't understand the significance of light

without darkness,

or the feeling of warmth

without cold.

Home could be that feeling of longing for

being able to visit those simpler days just one more time,

and sometimes, it's responsible for the sadness I feel

in knowing how impossible that is.

Home can be memories of what used to be...

The first summer I managed to connect with my father,

staying up until 3:00 AM laughing together and playing games,

just because his work injury kept him at the house.

Or time spent with friends no longer around,

family no longer with me,

even though a piece of them will always live on inside of me.

But Home can also be what life has currently gifted me,

waking up in the morning next to someone

who truly understands me, accepts me and loves me,

scars and all,

and reciprocating that love.

It can be the pets and companions that are always happy

to see me walk through the door,

who look at me with warmth and affection, no matter

how the world spat me back out that day.

Home, to me, is an abstract thing, a nebula,

a collection of memories, feelings, and concepts that

when brought together by the gravity of life's trials,

forms the star that beats in our chests,

the core of who we are.