It’s that little cubby hole in a tiny corner of the world that is my space. It’s where I feel completely at ease, 100% me. Home is a place where I can fully exhibit my sense of style, creativity, and decorating ideas without the critique of an outsider. It’s that place where I put my feet up at the end of the day, where I knit for those I love, and where my energy is replenished each night.
It’s the building I look forward to being in all day long, where I can kick off my shoes, lean my head back against the top of the couch, and allow a sigh of relief, happiness, and gratitude escape me.
Home is also a set of people. When I see one of these particular people in a crowded restaurant, I breathe easily, no longer nervous from being surrounded by strangers, and my heart warms with love for them. That person is a part of my home.
I have a home here in this town with my husband. It’s not perfect–a bit messy, but that is a symptom of a lived-in home. It’s not too big, not too small. Our stuff is in it, both the important and the unnecessary. We spend most of our time in this space, chatting, laughing, crying.
I also have a home about 450 miles from here. I don’t have a physical space there to call my own, but “my people” are there. When I step into my mother’s house, I don’t think “home” unless I see her waiting with her arms open, saying “I’ve missed my baby girl.”
And when I open the door to my grandmother’s house, I don’t get that gooey warm feeling in the pit of my stomach, unless my dad grabs me and rubs his scratchy beard on my face, my nana asks how this “kiddo” is doing, and my grandpa acts surprised and jokingly says “When did you get here?!”
So that town, though kind of far away, is home too. I have another home as well. My in-law’s place. I don’t walk into it thinking I’m home unless I see familiar, loving faces peering around corners to see whose come.
Though I call this building here “home”, I guess it’s only a home because I live in it with someone I love. Otherwise, it’s just a building, no?