How does it feel to be home?
Ah, I hear this question so much. What people are asking is how does it feel to be back in familiarity, in a house that I know, where the food is familiar and the language is mine.
But home isn’t that for me.
Home is my aunt hugging me goodnight like she can’t believe I’m there. Home is binge watching British shows with my cousin. Home is trampolines and pizza and avoiding trips to Walmart.
Home is sarcastic quips and jokes that take too long to get to the punchline. Home is waiting on my Gramma to hurry up and blow dry her hair already.
Home is this weird bunch of people that I love in the living room telling stories.
And what stories we have to tell. I could write a whole series of them, but I don’t think I ever will. Part of me is selfish and wants to keep these stories hidden away for myself.
I don’t want to share my home.
Because home isn’t a big red house with a white picket fence. Not for me.
Home is butterfly wings and cicada shells in my hair. Home is screeching laughter and bike rides. Home is a crazy wild thing that I do with the people I love.
I suppose it’s all perspective, isn’t it? My home is my stories of long summer days and cold winter nights.
And maybe one day I will share them, but for now, I’ll be selfish and keep them hidden away to keep me warm.