Show and Tell - Andrew Hamilton

It is really hard to write about home when you do not really have one. Oh sure, I have a house where I grew up. I mean, some strangers live there now as it was sold during my parents’ divorce so it is not necessarily a place that I have the blissful opportunity to return to from time to time and feel complete. Both parents are afflicted with the illness that does not allow them to redecorate, so their current houses look like the one I grew up in even if the packaging is different. Even still, when I visit my parents, it does not feel like home per se.

Of course, the cliché goes that home is where the heart is (irrespective of one’s choice in upholstery). In general, I think that is true, but again, my parents’ houses do not really qualify. It sounds awful to say that because the love is there, just not the feeling of acceptance, support, or authenticity. Take those three things away and what you have is a relationship based on monetary contributions and flying home when bad things happen but not really the symbiotic relationship that provides comfort, sustainment, or even worse, hearty laughter.

When you get older, at some point you start to think of home as “your” house and not where you grew up or even where your parents live. You might fix it up real nice, buy some plants, and maybe even get a dog or some stainless steel appliances. But, we all know that home is not defined by knowing where the remote is and what channels are on the favorites list. It’s comfortable, yes. But hotels can be comfortable.

No, I think home is in the imagination. Sometimes it can sneak up on you and make a visit when you least expect it, like sitting in a coffee shop and having five peaceful, reflective minutes of happiness. It can be walking that dog and seeing how he takes every walk as a completely unique experience, even though you have been that way over a thousand times. It can be waking up next to someone who you have the possibility of loving before all the other complications arise. It can be fleeting, that home in your heart, your mind, your soul. The bricks and mortar might provide convenient trapping for it, but home is not something that is stationary. It seems to roam for me, is elusive. But, I always welcome its visit.