“Be grateful for the home you have, knowing that at this moment, all you have is all you need.” ~Sarah Ban Breathnach, American writer
“Home” means many things to me.
My husband and his family.
That includes the puppy, Lucky. He’s eight years old now, but he’s always a puppy to me.
My hometown of Pittsburgh.
Riverview Park, the childhood playground where Dad pushed me higher and higher on the swings. I learned to drive on the twisty road that flowed through the park. I fell in love with space looking at stars from the telescope at Alleghany Observatory on Friday nights.
The house in Michigan.
Our living room had space for my WiiFit, my Lovesac and the table I hosted scrapbook crops at. Nearby was the Starbucks where baristas knew our drinks. Nearby was Plymouth, a neighborhood city alive with a fountain, cash-only ice cream stand and the $2.00 one-screen movie theater that showed It’s a Wonderful Life and White Christmas every December.
The house in New Jersey.
A living room with a big bay window to decorate for the holidays. Sidewalks with streetlights and neighbors who know our name and wave. Not far is the Starbucks where baristas knew our drinks across from Kean University where we take campus walks.
State College and Penn State, a refuge to college memories.
Our friends and family, homes to stay at with a hug to welcome us.
Michigan. Pennsylvania. California. New York. New Jersey. Arizona. Ohio.
Our cars that we drive between all homes.
He drives to/from his parents. I drive to/from Michigan for the annual MegaMeet scrapbook convention. We drive to/from: Penn State; day trips, local coffee shops and Millburn, a neighborhood city with a park, pond and Pokestops.
I always thought “home” could only be just one thing, one place.
Maybe it always has been.