Home. Home is where the heart is. You are home to me. So many clichéd clips about where and what a home is. The first breakfast with the parents; that awkward question, “Where do you call home?� How can I answer? When the only answer that would be honest is by her side, I say, “No one city in particular.� Evasive and on the vestiges of honesty.
When your home changes so often, new houses, new streets, new friends, no physical place can hold so lofty a title. When your home changes so constantly, you have to find something outside the physical world of bricks and mortar to hold you. Sadly the heart of another is no more permanent a place than the eye of a hurricane, and no somewhat less protective. Luckily, with the quickly changing tides of home and heart, we learn to rapidly retract that offering of imbued solace, returning to the safety and comfort of ones own chest at the first sign of danger.
It’s possible to find another who will hold that piece of us indefinitely, who will treasure it and keep it as we want to keep their trusted secret places. It’s just not likely. So we list and categorize what we need; what’s important. We try to embody all the things that should attract that person… and we throw the dice. Tumbling across that awful landscape of wrecked lives and broken hearts, their staccato clacking a morbid countdown to a new experience; new heart; new home. I’ve thrown my dice; we’ll see how they land.
