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.