Last night I lay in bed sick. Pillows propping me up so I can try to breath. Nose stuffed up and running at the same time. I looked around the room. I am laying in a bed that isn’t mine…would never be mine no matter how long I lived here. This is the house where I live. I also have a house that I visit, my cabin… my dream. But I don’t imagine myself there anymore living my life like I once did. It is just a place where I get to escape for a couple days a half dozen times a year.
But back to me in bed sick stuffy, runny nose and fever and I just want to go home. I want to be sick in my house. The little yellow ranch house with the front porch and the big yard and the hardwood floors. Of course that house isn’t mine anymore. I lived there for about 26 years, I have only been gone 8. It seems so much longer. I was married, had children, divorced and made mistakes in that house. It was a whole different lifetime.
Tonight in bed I can picture myself curled up on the couch looking around trying to remember what was in the living room. I try to place pieces of furniture and knick knacks. This is a place of comfort. I wonder if that will always be the place that will feel like home. I wonder if home sometimes isn’t where you live or where you love but where you invested the biggest parts of you. The place where dreams were born and life was lived.
Word Witch