My Home Is Not One Place

Joel Sossa
Joel Sossa

Home is the two-story with beige siding and the dog curled up in the front room window.

Home is the tiny dorm with the lime green curtains, is my sister’s bed, is the passenger seat of my best friend’s car, is my ex boyfriend’s porch steps at midnight.

Home is the couch in the living room of my first apartment, is the local bar, is the coffee shop on Saturday mornings.

Home is bare feet and dangling legs on the rooftop, sharing drinks and watching the sunset.

My home is not one place, not rooted to where I was born or the words stamped to my ID. My home is infinite—all the places I’ve wandered, all the lessons I’ve learned, all the people I’ve kissed or loved or laughed with.

My home is late nights and early mornings at work, is high school memories and college parties, is cross-country road trips, is telling stories under the stars.

It is the people who have blessed me, shared pieces of their lives with me, even for a short time.

It is feeling like I belong in more place than one.

It is claiming my memories as mine.

My home is people. Family, and those who became family. Friends, and those whose lives flitted with mine for a moment. Even those I don’t remember clearly in my mind but felt their presence, see their faces in the background of a photograph—they are bits and pieces of me—where I’ve been, where I belong.

And I will never belong to just one place. TC mark


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  • subtleroyalty

    So accurate <3

  • Maria Jansson Photography

    Love it! I wish I’d written that beautiful piece :)

  • Cara

    My home address is the same as it’s always been…the numbers are affixed to the two-story brick and stucco building I’ve been living in since I was three weeks old. More specifically, home is the back bedroom of that structure, the bedroom overlooking the yard.

    But home is also the Atlantic City boardwalk, where I spent the last two weeks of August every summer of my teenage years. Home is the spot of beach near the steel pier, my cousins and I launching ourselves in the water like boats, waves crashing over our heads.

    Home is Florence, Italy, where I spent six weeks when I was 19. The cobblestone streets, the boarding house I stayed at in Via Alemani, happy hours (and golden showers) at a place called The Fiddlers Elbow.

    More recently, home is my four year old niece getting into my makeup and painting her lips crimson…home is my almost two year old nephew telling me “blue car AGAIN” after I just spent an hour pushing him up and down the street in his blue car.

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