The term “home” has been extremely salient for me this year. In January, my home was with Claire and a flower, a bird, a repetition, and a baby. By April, home had lost its meaning for me. There were many houses I stayed in, but moments in which I struggled to find my place in them. I questioned whether, I was an obstruction or a blessing. I loved all the places I stayed, and experienced feeling homey, but never got the absolute feeling of home.
I recall a conversation with my mother in June. She urged me to come home and get a break from my instability. I remember my words clearly, “Mom, if I come home; I will never go back.” Home is where you feel at peace and where you don’t struggle to find belonging.
As I sit in Hartsfield-Jackson Airport waiting to board my flight, I leave home to return home. I make things unnecessarily difficult sometimes. I didn’t want to claim Atlanta as my home since, I hadn’t been here in over a year. However, being in the presence of my family reminded me that I do have a home here. My family is not perfect, but neither am I. My mom and sister and brother and even my dad are my family. And, with them I am home.
I need to stop writing about my family though before, I start bawling in an airport.
I return home to Houston today as well. Not, to a couch or mattress or daybed, but to a room in a house that I live in. Yes, everyone I have a place to live, and it is scary. It is frightening, but here I am home. There I am home.