When do you know you are home?
I reckon I’ve asked this question before, but perhaps not to those who are reading now, or maybe so and your answer has just changed a bit.
Of course “home” can mean many things in itself. Sights, smells, phrases and textures even.
Over the years, in the near decade since I’ve left my parents home, in my travels to various backyards, I’ve started to collect variations of “home.” Not recreating, as some of the very distinct things to me now, did not exist in my surroundings growing up. Which to me further proves that “home” is nothing constant, it’s always changing with you.
Mountains and moss-covered trees.
Water and bridges.
A freshly mowed lawn…
How about you. When do you know you are home?