When I was ten, I moved away from the only home I ever knew. Ever since, I was in a constant search of "home." The place where the walls held my memories. Where I was welcomed. Where I belonged. I'd be increasingly jealous of my friends that could go back to their childhood's home. That they could come back to a foundation, to something that felt never changing. For so long, I felt like a nomad. Wandering through baron plains, just making camp to leave again. New places, new beds, staring at new awkward ceilings. Each year I'd find myself more cynical of the idea a home. Assuming it was just youthful idealism with no merit or purpose. Living in a world of temporary, with interchangeable parts, why would anyone need attachments?
But then I found home. I found that I could belong. I found that I could be welcomed. Not in a house, or location. Not in a city of a state. But in Sara. In our marriage, our friendship, our romance, our life together.
Home. is where ever I'm with you.