What
does home feel like? For me, it’s a place where – or a person with whom – I am
safe. Loved. Accepted for myself and free to be myself. Home is not a physical
thing for me. It was when I was a kid, but even then, we moved around so much
that getting attached to the house was futile. Home was where my family was –
and I know I was luckier than a lot of kids. Ter, for instance, feels more at
home with my kin than she did with her own, since growing up for her happened
harder and faster than it did for me.
But
that was when we were kids. As adults, we’ve made a home wherever we’ve lived,
whether for six months or sixteen years. Sometimes, I haven’t wanted to go
home. When renos were happening or the neighbours were too close beneath our
feet, my office was preferable to my house, which speaks to the closeness of my
colleagues as evidence that home is a feeling rather than a location.
Years
ago, when I figured out how to operate the speed dial on my work phone, I
loaded “home” onto the button just below “parents”. One day, meaning to call my
folks, I instinctively dialled “home” (well done, Mum and Dad!) Two years ago,
when Ter and I each got a cell phone, she took our old land line as her new
number. I haven’t bothered to change the speed dial ID. Home means many things
to many people, but for me, it means “Ter.”
Well
done, bud. <3
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