“The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.” Maya Angelou
Our home can be in any country, but it’s not really home until all of the family is there. If you ask my children where they’re from, they get confused looks on their faces. For families like ours, the house is not the home.
We are at that point in our lives where our children are making their own homes. I could not be more proud of them all. Soon, people will be asking their children, “Where are you from?” I wonder what they’ll answer.
I’m not comfortable living in someone else’s home. The size doesn’t matter, but I need a place to make a nest for my family. That’s what I call “home.”
Home is a place to make fond memories. We recently visited this house that we once called home. I smiled at the remains of the rope from an old swing where we pushed our three children. Bananas growing on the nearby trees, the sound of boat motors on the canal behind the house, hibiscus blooming on the bushes, and the familiar bird sounds all made me nostalgic.
Home is a place to leave your shoes, to refresh your mind, and to love on each other. Home is where you belong when you don’t feel you do. Home is a place to snuggle and find warmth. Contrary to the saying, you can always go home again.