Home is running barefoot through a forest path, yelling all the way in case there are bears. There never are, but we enjoy the rush.
Home is calling friends at unnatural times because time zones don’t care who’s missing who.
Home is my grandma’s perfume seeping through the scarves she’s left behind.
Home is yelps and screams because someone just lost a nerf war.
Home is the stinging wind on my skin as I half-stumble down a loch’s shore, processing, listening, unsure.
Home is a tight squeeze.
Home is salt in my mouth and my ears and chills all up my body and smiles on my face because
we jumped in again and no,
we weren’t supposed to.
Home is watching the ground rise up towards you as the plane falls.
Home is my mother’s soft voice telling me to calm down,
late night chats with my dad,
disorganized card games with my brothers and cries of “you cheated AGAIN”.
Home is people together, lifting their voices, one purpose, Abba, we worship you.
Home is a journey.

Hello loves. I recently had to do a free-write on what home means to me as a part of a  poetry class, and this is what came out of it. I’m currently in Canada visiting friends and family, and I am struck by the fact that I don’t call a single place home anymore. Home is more of an idea, a memory, a place which follows me wherever I choose to let it. And while that isn’t always easy, it is also a beautiful journey. 

What does home mean to you?

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