A friend posed an interesting question the other day. Asked a group of us if we still feel a sense of home. If we still miss home.
I always miss home. I miss home EVERY SINGLE DAY. It’s something I struggle with. It’s something I will continue to struggle with for the rest of my life, I suppose.
My husband is very independent. He either really doesn’t care or feel the need to live near his home, or he does a helluva great job hiding it. He is one of those people who could up and move to Germany tomorrow and not think twice.
I, however, already feel too far from home. And I’m “only” about 6 hours from my home. But I miss being close to family. I miss the house I grew up in, where my parents still live. I miss the country air and trips into the city. (Yes, that city … the CITY OF CHAMPIONS!) I miss the foods I grew up on that you can’t find anywhere else. I miss lots of stuff. I miss it all.
So in answer to my friend’s question…yes. I miss home very much. I still feel a very strong sense of home. I have often felt like I’m lost in Indiana. Like this is just a side trip in my life that has ended up lasting way longer than I had ever expected. But part of me is starting to believe this is now going to be our home. We have lived here for what? More than a decade now? Holy cow. And … is it really fair to tear my kids away from the only home they know? Would I then be leaving a gaping hole in their hearts, just to try to mend my own?
Home … it’s such a hard word for me to define. If home is truly where the heart is, what the hell does that mean? Because my heart is in Pennsylvania. But it’s also in Indiana. And pieces of it are also in some unlikely places, such as North Carolina and Maine.
Home. Home sweet home. There’s no place like home.
Now if I could just figure out where mine is meant to be …