I’m sitting in my childhood home posting this morning. I’m sitting on the same spot on the couch that I’ve sat since I can remember. The coffee cup that sits on the table beside me is the same one that I have drunk out of for the last ten or so years. Comfortable, that is how I would describe how I feel. Coming home is like putting on your favorite sweater that fits just perfectly and wraps around you and keeps you warm.
I turned off the lights to head to bed last night and was surprised that I could still navigate the hallway to my old bedroom. The furniture in the room is different from when I occupied it but the feeling the same. (My son is currently occupying that furniture which originally was the proud possession of my grandparents.) I pulled down the covers and slipped into the bed. As I laid my head on the pillow, I recognized that familiar sensation as I sunk into the same pillow I have laid my head on so many times before. I was overcome by how familiar everything felt and I truly felt like I was “home.”
I am so lucky that my parents still reside in the home I grew up in. I have never had to give up that safe and comfortable place that holds all my childhood memories. I am sad to say I haven’t given my children that same experience. We have moved eight times from job transfers. I worry that they will never have that place to return to that feels like home. All I can hope for is that it is more about the people in the home then the place.
I suppose Dorthy said it best when she said “There’s no place like home.”
Thanks for stopping by again to hear the random ramblings of a middle-aged daughter.