I’ve had a lot of homes. I became more aware of this recently when a friend of mine asked, “are you going home for the weekend.” I was condused, because she thought of home as the home of my parents, and I thought of it as the place I live now.
Home is defined, in my eyes, as somewhere where I am happy and content. Home is where I feel the most myself. Home is where I have some sort of control.
As a younger child, I had several homes. There was my parent’s ranch house, the little green painted room at my Mamaul’s house, the large field behind my parent’s house. I felt the most at home there. I wrote letters to racoons in the mud near a little creek that I manipulated to have tiny waterfalls. There was a thin tree growing behind the pond that I thought of as mine. I played in the pond, smashing the shells on snails and dipping them into the water on the end of a line to catch minnows.
I got older and that house sold. I lived in a camper for a year. I felt nomadic and homeless. My parents cut my electricity off one night to put another heater in teir trailer.
Then we moved into their house. It was large and I, who am horrible at cleaning, was in charge of it. Then, it was off to college, one roommate who hated me, then one who was confusing and immature, but friendly.
Then, I moved into a commune that will always be home in one way or another, but where I never really fit in. I was a nomad agian. I was a hermit in a horrible shell of a cabin one year, depressed and nearly suicidal. Then, I moved back to my parents house. After that, I moved here, to my little city corner apartment. I am happy.
I’ve never, though, cohabitiated with a loved one. I live alone now, but my lovely lk is the one who comes in to visit, and she always cleans and makes my place a home. Before I had her, I had a shell, but now this is home. Had I lost my heart somewhere along the way before, had my gypsy genes gotten in the way? Perhaps. It could be that I had home in me all along. Finally, though, with her irritating me just a little by straightening everything and calling my attention to the fact that I really am a slob, though, I feel like I did back then, I feel like I have a little tree all my own, springing up near a creek and that raccoons really do read notes written in the mud.