“Home is where the heart is” or so I hear. Home is both anchored and not. Home can be found in the midst of like-minded souls in a crowded room, grooving to a nostalgic beat from an artist long beloved and unheard from in years. Home can be the town that your family has lived in for over 25 years, and has finally returned to. Home can be renewed. Home can be a brand new house, filling with friends turned family, wrapping your parents and each other in warm embraces. Home can be the giggle of your best friends’ baby, recognizing you from across the room even though she was mere months old last time you met. Home lies in those couch cuddles and chats, rambling on far longer than anticipated, but much needed in their warmth. Home is in the toys strewn along the table, gifted from afar, tokens of milestones missed. Home can be the wind breezing across your face in the mid-afternoon, an acknowledgment, you are here again, taste this space. Home can be a meal shared with a friend, taking photos because you seldom document the moments you breathe the same air. Home can be an evening stroll turned playground plights, wistful moments on swings like a time gone by. Home is chai, garam and spiced, greeting you when the afternoon hits. Home may be here, but home is also where I am stretching my wings, across the country. Home is like a vine, growing westward, not yet ready to set roots yet eager to keep following the sun. Is home cyclical? Is home there and back again? Can a person be a home? That I do not yet know, but I am eager to find out.
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