Home isn’t a place, it’s not a house that’s been carefully constructed with a sturdy foundation and beautiful yeard, no. These things are trivial.
Home is a person. YOUR person.
If you’re at all confused let me ease your mind. I have felt as if I am a nomad throughout my life. Roaming from place to place and never quite fitting in.
I watch and observe as if the whole world is a giant bubble, and as you can guess, I’m on the outside of it looking in.
Have you ever been so plagued by sadness, unable to will yourself out of bed to start your day, and then your phone dings, it’s your husband just telling you he loves you (and that he left cigarettes on the kitchen counter)?
How much easier it is to pop out of bed with vigor, pull open the curtains letting the sunlight break through your windows like a dam that’s been waiting to burst, and start the arduous task of putting yourself together, when you have received a text like this?
Does a bed really have sentimental value if you’re still waking up to the same person?
I’d argue the people who inhabit the house make it a home.
The socks your husband leaves scattered on the floor, the pieces of cereal your daughter has hidden in between the couch coushins, the toys you almost trip on every time you run to the bathroom in a hurry, the sensory overload that entails after either your husband or daughter loses a game, the way the entire bathroom looks like someone blew the entire thing to bits after your daughters bath, or the drinking glasses that are strewn around the sink because your husband has never heard the concept of: re-using your glass.
Those little annoyances, the laughs, the scowls, and the screeching, all of those things and then some, are what makes my apartment a home. Without all of the chaos, crayon on the walls, and toothpaste globs and hair littering the sink like Christmas snow, this would just be an apartment.
It wouldn’t be imbued with all of the experienes of our lives, it would be an empty shell just waiting for a family to make it a home.
An empty canvas, if you will. An empty canvas that’s anxiously awaiting the next Vincent Van Gogh or Pablo Picasso to share their creativity with the space of what has yet to be called: