home

I was born in a small city in Florida.

I wasn’t really raised one place as I bounced house to house for a little over 14 years.

So I guess what I’m saying is: I never felt home.

Even when I moved out of my parent’s house, I never really felt like I was where I belonged.

Yes, this is my house.

The house in which I reside.

A house.

But is it really a home?

It wasn’t until one summer.

That seems really cliche, I know, but hear me out.

It wasn’t until one summer when I decided to leave behind my friends and family and explore something new.

Do something out of the ordinary.

I went to New York.

I stayed with a friend in Jersey and his family welcomed me into their home.

There’s that four letter word again.

I was a visitor, but something felt different.

Off, even.

I unpacked everything into my friend’s room and laid down.

I thought,

“Well this is weird”.

I moved on.

Which is pretty ironic, considering who I am.

Anyway.

I spent the day with my ex-boyfriend who, in reality, doesn’t really feel like my ex anymore.

But that’s not the point.

We spent the day together and I had more fun than I could ever have in my small hometown.

That night, I went to the movies with my friend and, again, had the best night of my life.

At the end of the day, I laid in my friend’s bed and thought:

“When can I be here again?”

The next morning, the smell of cinnamon buns filled the air.

I hadn’t had cinnamon buns in so long.

I spent the week with my friends, doing fun stuff, exploring, and just being in each other’s company.

Suddenly, I was crying.

I was looking at the sky and admiring the orange and pink explosion above me.

Bawling like a baby.

The tears were flowing.

And every other simile and metaphor for crying.

I was upset.

Why?

Well, I turned to my friend with my ugly mug and said:

“I’m home”.

See, home wasn’t where I grew up.

Home was not even a place I had ever lived before.

Home was the smell of cinnamon buns.

Home was sleeping in my friend’s bed.

Home was hanging out with my ex-boyfriend.

Home was laying in a hammock and looking out at the night sky.

Home was getting stuck in traffic for over an hour.

Home was a bustling city with rude people and loud streets.

Home is where the heart is?

Then my heart lay in a city a thousand miles away.

When I left New York, I had never felt more homesick.

It’s been over a year since I was home.

Call me a lost child,

For that is what I sound like

When I say:

“I want to go home.”