A number that will always mean the world to me.
The address of my first real home.
But that was many, many moons ago.
From the ages six to seventeen I lived at this moderately sized house of miracles and fun.
This house was where my worsts took place.
But it is also the home of many of the bests.
This house was the place where I learned guitar.
It is also the place where I hid in my closet and sang to myself trying to be quiet while my parents stood “quietly” outside the door.
This home was modest, but there was a huge backyard to run around and play.
A yard big enough so my brother and I could tie a rope to our belt loops and run in opposite directions. (Don’t try this).
It was a safe haven.
It was a place where I could go home and relax.
The minute I would walk in the front door and shut it, I would hear the squeak from it’s ancient hinges and I knew I was home.
I would throw down my bags and I would walk to the living room and sit on the couch and take a breath. mmm. Home.
Home was this house.
After being ripped from the only safe place I ever knew, it’s been hard to get back to that place. That place where I could go and relax, and know that I was home.
Being here at school has changed for me. It doesn’t feel like home anymore. It just feels like a pitstop on the way to home. But being the age I am, I don’t really know what home means anymore. Is it a place? Or is it a state of mind? Being content? I don’t know.
All i know is I feel anxious. I feel like I need to know where home is. Where I will reside. Where I will feel at home. I hate not knowing.
I don’t want to just follow people on their dreams. But I also don’t want to go home and deny that I have any. I want dreams. I also want to have the courage to follow them. To follow them all the way until i finally feel at home.
After so many years up being ripped up and out, I have been resistant to drop roots anywhere. I need a home. Not one that I have followed someone to. But something that is my own. I want my own 1261.