Thursday, January 12, 2012


I struggle sometimes when it comes to finding a name or what word to use when referring to my "mom's house." I haven't lived there for years, so it's not my home. But saying "mom's house" seems way too informal. Like it deserves more reverence. I can't call it my childhood house. We moved there after I did most of my growing, so I don't consider it where I grew up. But it is where many of my family still live and I guess that's why it's still home or at least one of my homes.

When I'm on the phone and I tell my mom we're going to be home this weekend, it could really mean two things....we're coming for a visit or we're staying put.

When we're there and my brothers and babies are closer to siblings than uncles, it becomes my home again. 

(pictures courtesy of Mark) 

And there isn't a separation. We're just family. We're home.

I can feel this shift when I witness Marcella unselfishly sharing her time with Molly to play with her but after awhile needs a little alone time, they remind me more of sisters. The only difference is their last names.

But somewhere between there and here, after the we have to leave lump shrinks in my throat, I arrive home once more. I pull the car in our garage. Tuck babies into their rightful sleeping places. And I'm home. 

I can't explain the sadness I feel having to leave but not being sad about where I'm going. But I guess that's life. Just part of the unexplainable. The part when you have to just let it be and not complicate it with theories and debates. If it feels like home, it must be home.


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