A home is not a single, contained space of air and brick and walls that hold, that shelter. A home is not a roof, not a door, not a fence or even a window. It is not sisters and mothers, not the picture frames hanging on the walls, not the worn carpet or even the quilt that was passed down through four generations. A home is not just family. A home is not the things that exist within it. But most importantly, a home is not a dwelling place; it is a feeling.
A home is fluttering heartbeats and steady rhythms, sweaty palms and secure hands, tears and smiles, and everything in-between. It is two people who find each other, two people whose beings, whose souls just connect.
Home is fitting comfortably into the compartments of someone else’s heart. Home is falling in love and knowing that person is yours. And knowing no matter where you lay your head at night, no matter if the dishes are in the sink, or if the dog’s scratching at the back door, or if the paint is chipping by the porch, that person will always be yours.
Home, then is not a place, but a person. And you are my person.
You are the calm, but also the rush. The comfort of knowing I will always have someone to return to, of knowing that I am never alone. Yet also the excitement when I hear your name because I know I’m going back to you, again and again.
You are my laughter, but also my spark. You hold memories, happiness, slices of time I will never forget. And yet, you drive me crazy. You fire me up, make me angry, push me away. You give me new memories, memories outside of you. But I will always return.
You are my past, but also my future. You carry constant reminders of the girl I used to be, yet you inspire my strength. You build me, you unwind my kite strings and let me rise.
You are what I know, but what I still long for. You are my security, my savior. You are what I’ve always had, always cared for. Yet despite that, I still wish for you, day after day.
You are my place. You are my home. You are my person.