I enjoy the idea of home. But I have never been there. But the idea is a part of me. The idea of being grounded and belonging to something bigger than myself.
I believe i came from a home. A home between three birch trees, on the edge of a field, looking out to the river. A romantic place, where the front door lead to my bedroom i shared with my sister. I remember the baby blue carpeting and picture window.
But then i lost that home; it slipped through my fingers- although i held on so tight. The painful shards I still carry in my palms. And i can feel the bitter soreness when i try to grasp again.
I have learned to build a home in another place. (because everyone needs a some place to belong) I build the home with my heart- in my heart. I dont have to hold onto my home there, and it will never go away. And my many homes exist- they become my heart.
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