Home

Home.

A home isn’t four symmetrical sides that dignifies what love is inside the heart.

It’s always with me.

It isn’t literal walls.

It’s the best metaphoric way to define the risk we take for love.

The price we pay for love!

Home isn’t a residence, retreat maybe but it comes with the pain and the glory.

It references almost everything from pride and faults, rises and falls, values and losses, to true bliss and misery.

Pain and glory.

Home.

It’s been stripped and rebuild as long as I’ve been alive, and that sweet aroma of comfort and trust just gives a pleasure that nothing else can give.

It’s not just brotherly, sisterly, parental, friendly, or romantic.

It’s Familia.

But what happens when that home of love distorts into a hole?

When lost or broken?

When home loses its place in your heart, there’s a grief of that smile, laugher, refuge, protection, vulnerability, and limitless love that you shared with a special someone being gone.

Home may become a hole.

Still there but with no barriers.

In a distance that may not be safe to retrieve.

Home isn’t just a residence.

Home isn’t just fulfilment.

Home can be taken.

Home can be lost.

It can be broken.

It can be gone.

A hole.

When you build a foundation of security, belonging, and loyalty, you stitch up a blanket of covering.

Like a quilt.

Like a tapestry.

That is home.

Something your heart holds, not what you wear on your sleeve.

I have a home.

Its been torn and resown.

Some pieces are lost, some broken and gone, but isn’t grief sorrow yet such a worthy price to pay for love?

I heard someone once say, “The only way to never feel pain is to never feel love and that’s not a life worth living.”

I’d do all the re-breaking a million times over for my home despite all the pain when there’s a heavy glory within it.

Two types of gravity that either brings you up or it holds you down and I’m getting by, by both.

I have grown because of this heavy warmth of love we call home and I have broke because of this heavy grief of pain we call holes and the loss is such a worthy cost we pay for, for this thick fulfilment of sweet pleasure that’s not only gotten by brotherhood, sisterhood, parental love, romantic love, or friendship.

It’s so much more beyond that.

It doesn’t discriminate.

It’s not a hope to be desired.

It’s something we can either have and cherish or it’s something we still hold even thought it can be lost or gone.

Home is a being of state filled with a leaping love that’s always there, it just may not always be in sight.

Home may not always be reliable or the warmth we need sometimes but a home is surely something we shouldn’t dispense unless it distorts to something we’ve outgrown or something that has strained.

But it will always have an impact on us.

Home.

Home to me means heavy pain for a heavier glory that’s held in the heart from people we’ve put right beside us below the surface.

Not residence.

Like a sethescope that senses what’s not in sight.

Home.