Today, my mom moves out of the house I grew up in. It’s just a house, but I am sad because it is my home. My family didn’t move around when I was in school, so I have much of my identity wrapped up in that house’s redwood walls and stilts and sliding doors and brick walls that my mother individually painted.
Do you know what a home is, baby?
A house becomes a home when you know where the creaks are in the floor.
A house becomes a home when you make a dent in the wall, notice it for a few weeks and remember what you did, then stop noticing it, even when you look straight at it.
A house becomes a home when it’s where you get ready for your wedding.
A house becomes a home when you crumple in bed after the longest day of your life and you actually find comfort.
A house becomes a home when you move away, smell something that smells like the house you grew up in and know that the smell reminds you of home.
I now have a home with your father, and I am making it a home for you. Actually, I can’t get it clean enough (nesting is REAL). Right now everything in our home is broken, and although it is making my nesting instinct a little uneasy, my house still feels comfortable because it is a home.
Our home was once a home for another family. And my childhood house will be a home for another family. My dad’s spot by the window will be someone else’s. The place where we fed the cats will be a car port for someone else. The place where we made dents in the wall to record how tall we were will be noticed by someone else. That makes me feel better.
Unless some mean people bought the house. Then I don’t like it.
I hope you feel at home when you arrive at our house.