I’ve come to a sudden realization as of late, that home for me cannot be so simply defined as four walls and a roof. For 16 years, the third house on the left of a quiet suburban street with a brick paved driveway, hedge lined front and tiled verandah was my home. Laughter echoed through the front screen door and small glimpses of the happiest family I have lived to know could be caught through the small cracks of the white wooden shutters behind the glass windows. Yet the unanticipated destruction and breakdown of my once happy family saw the word home be ripped from association with that small house that contained over 6000 days and over 144, 000 hours of beautiful memories with my family and my friends, the nearest and dearest to my heart.
Home to me from then on in became a place where I lived, where I had a bedroom, where I would return to after a long day and see my family, that of which remained. Home first became a huge house on the other side of the city with a mixed family. Home then became a small apartment overlooking beautiful treetops with an upstairs neighbour with the footsteps of an elephant.
Home now however can’t be so simply captivated into one singular space, one environment. No four walls and a roof can embody the beauty and magnificence of what home now means to me. Home can’t even be expressed as a place. Home is the warmth you feel in the comfort of two arms and a familiar heartbeat. Not just from one person, I feel it in the presence of so many. My family, blood or not, those who I love and care for are my home. My home is within myself, I do not place such an important thing into something so tangible as a house, I hold it deep in my heart. My home in my heart cannot be taken away like it once was, those few years ago.
As they say, home is where the heart is.