Where I Rest My Soul

As a child, home was a physical place.

It was the house on the corner of the street,

with the pretty door that had a stained glass window.

Then it was grandma’s house,

where we’d use the side door to come in,

and we’d pack everyone in like sardines for a Christmas party every year.

At 12, it was the two-bedroom apartment,

with the sliding door, little patio, and a bunk bed I shared with my sister.

At 15, it was my parents’ house and my grandma’s house,

because I was always in between.

At 19, it was the cramped trailer behind a Burger King,

with a fiancé and several friends.

Then it was a dorm room,

and my best friend’s couch where I’d crash every time I needed to get away from my roommate.

Home soon became the thing I’d use to escape from reality for a bit.

It became the drinking,

the smoking,

the casual sex,

the impulse buying.

It became the arms of a guy that wasn’t my fiancé, but a friend I could trust with my life.

Home became the relationship I got into in college,

and the things you did to keep it.

At 23, it became finding myself again.

Being single for once after years of being in and out of relationships,

and taking time to focus on making better friends,

going out for tacos,

finishing up my bachelor’s degree,

loving my college campus and the commodities it gave me.

At 24, it was the internship with the head of the English department,

and the community of professors and students that surrounded me and pushed me to succeed in that last stretch.

The theater club I finally joined,

and new best friends that quickly turned into family.

Saturday and Sunday brunches with those friends in the campus cafeteria.

The teams at the radio station, and the burger place, and the on-campus Starbucks who’d call me “Cutie” and “Sweetheart” and always made me feel special.

The booth at the radio station where I’d broadcast ‘80s music.

For the past 20 months, it’s been the physical place where I’ve spent the most time.

But, in the past 3 months, I’ve seen home in a way I never thought I would.

Home isn’t just the roof over my head,

the bed I sleep in every night,

the place I come to after work.

It isn’t just the family and friends I surround myself with.

It isn’t just the external world around me;

the house I live in,

the city,

the parish,

the state.

It isn’t my hometown.

It isn’t found in someone else.

Home is

Me.

My body.

My brain.

My lungs.

My heart.

My intuition and sight.

My emotions and thoughts.

My actions.

It’s the girl staring back at me when I look in the mirror.

It’s the person I need to take care of the most.

It’s the person with dreams and goals and ambitions and a fiery spirit.

If I didn’t have family,

friends,

a house,

a car,

school,

work,

a relationship,

I still have her.

I need to love her,

nurture her,

tell her she’s doing alright,

feed her food so she doesn’t starve,

hydrate her so she doesn’t pass out,

give her meds when she’s sick.

Home starts at a Center, and that Center is always

Yourself.

Even if I had nothing,

I’d always have

A Home.