Lately I’ve been thinking about the concept “home” a lot. About place and belonging.
My parents are moving from our house in New Jersey of 22 years to head down south. A house that is filled to the brim with memories of my childhood will soon be “home” to a new family.
It’s bittersweet. My parents are looking for something new and different, and I know that they need new sights and new sounds and a new adventure. But to never lay my head down in my sunshine yellow room is something I cannot even fathom right now.
Over 4th of July weekend I went home for the last time. I sat on our deck under the shade of the trees, walked the quaint Main Street of our town one last time, and said one last goodbye to the garden my dad and I planted in every year. A yellow sign in the yard of my neighbor’s yard showed I’m not alone in this. In these goodbyes. This feeling of nostalgia and sentimentality.
Now I don’t know what to call home. When I go see my parents down south, I can’t see myself saying I’m going home. I’ll simply be going to visit my parents.
Is the state I currently reside in home? I think Virginia could be home, someday. But right now it feels impermanent. I have no plans to necessarily stay here. I don’t own property or land or have a place I call my own (living that renter’s life).
For now my home is wherever the people I love are. I have homes scattered across the northeast and south.
At the same time, I’d like a place I call my home. Somewhere to put down roots, to really know and love the community. To tread familiar paths and feel like I truly belong.
I’m not sure where that place will be yet; I’m still searching for a home that I can call my own.