in mistaking home for a place, we forget it’s the people that make it worth returning.
Home used to be in the silence of my gated community. In the cookie-cutter house at the edge of a cul-de-sac, in the oddly steep concrete driveway leading up to a brown two-car garage, in the leaves of the bushes outside my bedroom window that became sparse with the changing seasons. The few main roads of the city that led to cherished destinations, like the high school, the gym, the parks…
Upon each visit to this city that shaped my adolescence, it tends to stir up less emotion. But why? Everyone seems to have outgrown the ‘bubble’, even I, leaving it behind in pursuit of a more promising future. Teens off to college, empty nesters off to bigger cities with more movement, and new families with young children moving in to keep the cycle in motion. This is when I opened my eyes, for home is not determined by the place, but by the people in it. What is home?
Home is now found in the clamor of my off-campus apartment building. In the cookie-cutter apartments on each of the five floors, in the oddly narrow turns at each end of the parking garage leading up to the rooftop, in the traffic light outside my living room window that sways with the wind. The few main roads of the city that lead to cherished destinations, like the university, the record store, the parks…
Upon each visit to my mother’s house in Miami or my father’s house in Ohio, it tends to stir up feelings of deracination. But why? Everyone seems to have outgrown their old schedules, even I, leaving them behind in pursuit of new goals. Their teen off to college, my empty nester parents off to bigger cities with more movement, and a new normal taking form to keep our cycles in motion. This is when I opened my eyes, for home is not determined by the place, not just by the people in it, but by the feeling of belonging. What is home?
What does it mean to belong? To be the property of? To be a member or part of a particular group, organization or class? To be rightly placed in a specified position? No, to belong is to be loved, to be of value, to be of purpose.
Home has always been found in this feeling of belonging. In my mother’s embrace, in my father’s laughter, in my cousin’s relentless FaceTime calls, in the conversations I have with my best friends. The never-ending highways that lead to cherished destinations, like the homes we gather in for the holidays, the rooms we converse in for hours, the parks we watch the sunsets in…
Upon each trip down memory lane, it tends to stir up feelings of longing. But why? Everyone seems to have begun building lives for themselves, even I, apparently forgetting what it was like to live without true responsibilities. Us teens off to college, some of our empty nester parents off to bigger cities with more movement while others remained in our hometown, and calls, texts, and periodic visits keeping our relationships in motion. This is when I opened my eyes, memories are priceless, time is invaluable, and home is but a feeling, not a place.
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