Going Home.

I was born in Bennington, Vermont in 1988. My family, which consisted at that time of my Mother, Father and younger Brother, moved swiftly to Rutland, Vermont. We lived there until the summer before I turned nine. My parents separated that summer and being that my entire extended family on both my Mother and Fathers side lived in New Jersey that is where my Brother and I were headed with my Mom. My Father moved around to a few different places in Vermont before finally settling in Brattleboro, the place I would spend many warm New England summers well into my teen years until I eventually started getting distracted by friends, going to the beach everyday and working odd jobs.

My Brother. On our way home. (Photo by me)

When my Mom, Brother and I moved to New Jersey we rented a little condo with my Aunt where I shared a room with my Mom. It was a tight squeeze but it was comfortable. Eventually, we moved out into a little bigger, little nicer place when I was about to go into eighth grade. This house became the one place that I have lived in the longest (11 or 12 years). It is where the fights, the sneaking out, the laughing, the lazy days, the holidays, the skipping school, the everything happened.

Two weeks ago was my first time I went home to visit my Mom since she sold that house. She sold it so her and her new husband could move in together and so that their collective three kids could all have beds when they came to stay. When I went down to New Jersey it was my first time not going home. I kept getting asked if I was sad, and if I would miss that place I called my home, and to be honest at first I did feel a little sad, or maybe a little nostalgic about it or maybe I felt like I was losing something, but I wasn't sure what.

My Mother's flowers. (Photo by me)

Since I have never had one place, one house, one room with all of my things, I quickly got past those feelings. I learned long ago that a house is just a place. A roof over your head, doors to lock out the bad guys, windows to let the sun in at the most uniquely perfect angles so it shapes those piles of light on the floor so you can curl up like a cat in the middle of winter. I can not count on one hand all the places I've called home, for a week, for months, for years.

When I moved out to go to college I packed everything I owned into a car and to this day wherever I am, wherever I can love and laugh with special people is where I can call my home. Home is a collection of memories, the memories you will never forget when you leave. Home is your family sitting around any table in any place talking and laughing. It is where your friends are, the new ones and the old ones. All of those things might correlate with a specific place but at the same exact time you must remember, those things are very independent from each other, you can have a home without a specific place.

En route to New Jersey. (Photo by me)

It would have been easy to point a finger at my parents and blame them for not giving me something so many other people have, but the way I see it is that they gave me something so unique and special that I truly would never have found on my own.Am I happy that I have never had that place, the home that is talked about in all great stories, and seen on the big screen? I can honestly say that I have absolutely no idea. This is all that I have ever known. I can say that sometimes I long for that particular sense of security, or comfort, and I wonder what it would be like, but I wonder to no avail. I will never have those questions answered. I consider myself incredibly lucky to have had the opportunity to see different places in ways that so many people can't. I have had the opportunity to live the day to day in a ridiculous variety of places, to meet all sorts of people, to find those piles of light coming in from so many different windows, and to have doors not just to lock out the bad guys, but also to let so many different people in.