Home is a Noun

Once upon a time, I believed that home was a person.

Young and enamored,

It didn’t matter how or where we lived.

As long as he was with me,

I was home.

So many places and even more excuses.

The lessons were countless, and my learning slow.

Eventually, the eggshells under my feet followed us from house to house,

Until even the most careful steps brought pain.

Forever frozen in place. Afraid to move.

I knew he could never be my home.

As a child, home was a place.

So many places.

Sometimes as often as the changing seasons, back and forth, we traveled.

Forced to abandon the old to make room for the new.

Never time to settle, put down roots, or become attached.

So many places, I called home because that was all I knew.

So many places I called home that weren’t really home at all.

With adulthood came the realization that home was a thing.

A possession. a goal. Something to work toward.

Motivation and Competition.

“Keeping up with the Joneses.”

Working hard and struggling to make ends meet to obtain the thing called home.

No one told me that working hard wasn’t enough.

All the right moves couldn’t have been more wrong.

More hard lessons learned again.

And again.

I walked away empty-handed.

Twice.

But pride and motivation propelled me forward.

But would it ever be good enough?

If the search for better is never satisfied, can it really be home?

Home is an idea.

A diverse representation of one’s life experiences and choices

Flashes of memories recalled, never to be forgotten.

Nostalgic longing for times past.

The sadness, regrets, happiness, and joy.

Details that mold and shape one’s idea of what home is.

Memories of laying on a blanket in the clearing of the quiet woods behind our home.

Rays of sunshine peering through the treetops like spotlights on a stage.

Book in hand, enjoying the silence.

I was nine.

Later, the tiny seeds in my hand and the soft, warm earth beneath my feet.

The flourishing garden and delicious aromas filled the kitchen after the harvest.

The rows of glass jars and pride in sharing the delicious food grown and prepared in our home.

That first night in an empty house, blankets on the floor, no furniture

Terrified! What did I do? Did I make the right decision?

What a terrible mother I must be!

Starting from nothing.

Again.

Finding out later,

What an exciting adventure it was for them!

A revelation born of a lifetime of experience and knowledge.

Revealed to me that home must be a noun.

A noun is a person, place, thing, or idea,

(Elementary teachers rejoice,

For some knowledge has been retained)

Therefore;

Home is a person.

Snuggling up next to him, when the day is over, drifting off to sleep in his arms,

Safe and warm, Knowing I am loved.

Knowing I am home at last.

My heart tells me that I have found my forever home.

Home is a place.

My place, our place, our home.

Stability and roots; no moving.

One place. No new starts.

This is the only home they remember.

Home is a thing.

My thing. Our thing.

So much work done. So much left to do.

Flaws and imperfections, the endless list of tasks

Heart, soul, and sweat,

We have poured into these walls.

As a family, together,

We have made this thing a home.

The idea of home is all of this.

Music playing. Mug of spiced cider in hand.

My children together at Christmas for the first time,

Decorating the tree, opening presents, joking, and laughing.

My heart overflowing with joy!

Impromptu dance parties before bed.

Sweet laughter and screams of delight!

Tickling and pillow fights.

Sibling rivalry, sarcasm, and tattling.

Family movie nights. Games.

Uno, Mario Kart, Trivia,

Trash talk, Comedy, sarcasm, and fights.

If these walls could talk,

Oh, the stories they could tell.

This home has seen it all.