It’s not the place in which I lay my head as of late. That’s my house.
I wonder. Does everyone feel that way about their childhood home? I know that no matter what turmoil is going on inside me, it settles the moment I enter through this door. As if some magical salve is applied to protect me from all harm. In case you’re wondering: there’s nothing spectacular about this particular house. It’s a standard model.
And over there. That’s the dog. It’s not the same dog. But there’s always been one. I can count on that dog, whichever one it is, to greet me at the door and rest her head in my lap and make my heart happy.
When my life fell apart, I left my house and came home to put it together again.
When my daughter was born we brought her to our house but I brought her to my home not long after. Even she feels the power of home.
It hasn’t changed much and I’m grateful to come home and be me.