If you had the opportunity to live a nomadic life, traveling from place to place, would you do it? Do you need a home base? What makes a place “home” to you?
When growing up I lived in 8 different homes; 7 before the age of 13. One was a gas station converted into a house, one was above a bar, one was above a grocery, three were duplexes, one was an apartment above another, and finally a farm house.
They were all home; each had a certain charm and holds a bag full of tragedies and fond memories
The longest my wife and I have lived in one home was thirteen years.
My wife and I have moved a lot. When I was 57 we thought it was our last move. We moved again when I was 61. That move broke our hearts. That was supposed to be our last home.
We left our hearts there. It was a home I built myself. My wife decorated it. She painted the walls and stained cabinets. It was cozy and practical. It was conceived and designed for us. It was the culmination of us. Everything in it was ours by concept and possession.
Nothing has taken away the sadness of leaving that home for my wife or me. I suppose that is why I write so much. I create my own world to take away the pain of what was left.
I vividly hold dear the image of my wife wrapping household knickknacks and other delicate items in newspaper and packing them in moving boxes. It is likely the saddest thing I have ever seen.
Losing a home because one can no longer afford it is one way and painful, but there are worse ways.
Indeed, there is no place like home. And it is said ‘home is where the heart is.’ It is most likely our hearts have not moved with us. They were too delicate for the final move.
I just can’t write anymore.