It’s so strange. This idea of going home.

For years, home was the property in the middle of nowhere Texas. Close to thirty acres of wilderness. Almost half an hour to the nearest grocery store. A place to be a kid. Young, wild, free.

Even after moving to college, grad school, and beyond; home was still the center of my world. My point on the edge might change, but never my distance from home.

Later, home became him. Anywhere we could be together would be home. Yet, home was still home. As was his parent’s home. Home was where our families gathered.

Now home is my grandparent’s house. Changed with my parents belongings. Filled with the laughter of my nephew as he figures out that he can poke the puppies. Haunted with memories of days gone by. Rich with love.

Home is also his parents new place in a new state. Because home isn’t a location. Home is the people that fill the place. Home is the love and laughter shared. Home is made up of the memories being created as each second ticks by.

People keep asking where home is for us now that we’re out of the Air Force. I jest that we’re homeless.

We aren’t.

As long as we have each other, we’ll always have home.


About texancountess

I find myself in the calming roar of the sea, floating gently on the foam of the breaking waves. Blue. Green. Gray. The colors of the sea mark the boundaries of my soul. The tumbled glass finds its polish under the relentless pounding of the waves upon the shore. Thus am I. Rough transitioning to polish, refinement ever a process, finding my niche in the storms of life.
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