10534433_805460239487698_3486483049073214227_n-2I visited our storage unit today. It’s been two years since we had to toss most of our collected stuff, pack up the few things we couldn’t part with and put them in storage.

I say “few things,” and yet I was amazed at how much stuff there was in that small unit. Boxes of books mostly. But not what I was looking for. Steve’s and my anniversary is tomorrow, August 10. Our 40th. I wanted to find a wedding picture to post on Facebook. I wanted to say, “Look at how young we were,” “Look at his long hair,” “Look how pretty I was,” “Look at how far we’ve come.”

I couldn’t find any pictures of the wedding. Not one. Not of our dating days, our rehearsal dinner, our wedding, our honeymoon, our daughter’s first years. I left the storage unit feeling strangely displaced. I am homeless.

I’m not homeless in the way the man on the street corner asking for change is, and believe me, I am grateful for that. I am emotionally homeless. I have lived in apartments, one or two of them very nice luxury apartments, for more than 20 years. There are many pros to apartment living–or cave-dwelling as a friend of mine calls it. For one, if anything breaks, I’m not responsible for fixing it. I have no yard work, no sidewalks to shovel in the winter. There are massive downsides, however, and perhaps the biggest one is why Steve, Joshua and I had to evacuate our apartment two years ago and place a good portion of our lives in either the dumpster or storage.

I saw a Purina advertisement today for adopting cats. The text on the Facebook post said, “No one likes waiting to get home.” As you can see, the cat’s expression is one of longing and sadness. At least that’s how I interpret it. And I wanted this cat so bad it made me cry. Not just any rescue cat. THIS cat. No one likes waiting to get home.

I wanted to give this cat a home. I wanted to give her love. I wanted her to belong. Home. No one likes waiting to get home.

I’ve waited for more than 20 years. I want home. I want to belong.

Even the word “home” tugs at something inside me, something visceral and primitive as though home is one of a human being’s most basic instincts and needs. Home.

No one likes waiting to get home.

Please, God, shine a light in the window for me. Help me find home.

2 thoughts on “Home

  1. When I was growing up my family was always moving, in 12 years of school we moved at least nine times. Then going into the Navy I spent a lot more time moving around but I was almost always fortunate enough to take all my stuff with me. I know how important that can be.

    What you are feeling isn’t much different than someone who has had a fire, a sense of loss that lasts long after the ashes are cooled. The one thing you can do now is to begin a new collection of memories to look back on when you celebrate your 50th, 60th, 70th, 80th anniversaries.

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