In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “There’s No Place Like Home.”
I moved a bit when I was young. My parents divorced when I was 5, and my dad moved out and got a new place to live. Our house, that used to be our home, didn’t feel the same after he left. There were too many memories of us as a family there, and with him gone, it no longer felt like a safe place like it used to be. We only lived there for another year before my mom got a new house. I loved that house. I loved my room, my neighborhood, and all of the memories that were made there.
However, it was short lived, as we ended up moving to a completely different state when I was 10. Home number three. It was a good house, but in 1994, we moved one last time to another home in the same city. All of my high school years were lived n that home. My graduation party was held there, my family gathered there, my dog of thirteen years is buried there. And when I was in college my mom and step dad moved to a state over a thousand miles away. Our house was sold after they had already moved. I had stayed behind to live in the city I was familiar with. The realtor called to tell me the house had sold. I remember driving from my apartment to the house in the middle of the night. I unlocked the door, and turned on the lights. It was completely empty, my footsteps echoed as I walked, and I became flooded with emotion of the memories. I fell to the floor in the kitchen and sobbed for over a hour. It was very devastating, not only that my family had moved away, but that the home that connected us was no longer a place I could go for refuge.
Now, with a family of my own, I long for a place to call “home” when I visit my parents. I go visit my parents, but their homes are not mine. They are not the homes of my childhood. I should say, however, that my dad still lives in his home from my teen years in the western United States. It is rare that I go there, however, as we usually use my grandparent’s home for a meeting place. Now my grandma’s house?? That is full of childhood memories. That is one house I can always call home, no matter how old I become.
I remember walking through the forest at their house with my cousin. Walking 5 miles to visit my great grandmother on the dirt roads. We would hike, garden, explore. I’d ride on the tractor with my grandfather as he worked in the potato field. Maybe that is why I go back every year to this day. That is my safe place. Their house is my “home.” To be honest, I hope to move there to be closer to them sometime soon 🙂 Maybe the saying is true….home is where your heart is.