Home: A Short Story

Decent Essays
The idea of home is a loose image for me, one that wobbles and threatens to be blown away at the lightest breath. Home will never be a singular place, as I’ve become familiar with too many walls, each a distinct color of beige that is friendly, but not inviting, like a stranger you greet briefly as you skirt around them on the sidewalk. Each house a place to hold the memories I’ve placed in objects, a shell against the cold wind of time that bites harshly at the thin jacket that objects offer to recollection. Houses are nothing more than a box that contains that which I hold dear. Old pictures taken with friends against the hazy background of a summer night 10 years ago, a snow globe from my mother’s business trip, a letter from my brother, all things I would consider to be childhood home above an actual house. Home isn’t a place, it’s an intangible thought that I hold sweetly in my head, one that reminds me of the good, the bad, and those who have touched me throughout my life. The tender spot in my heart for objects, once used to be filled with people. I have been moving around often since I was born, therefore the impermanence of everything left me feeling rootless, as a result I would cling desperately to anyone who would even glance back at me. In an attempt to ground myself, I allowed anyone to make a home in my heart, however I’ve found that people are less permanent than places. When I was younger, I had a hard time interacting with many others due to very severe
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