At what point does something become home? It doesn’t seem right that a place which seemed so foreign before should now seem more real to me than the place I grew up in for the first 18 years of my life.
But in the short span of eight months, I’ve become accustomed to the (somewhat less than typical) independent college lifestyle. I embody a more mature adult now and have obtained an older soul.
This place will be known to me as the place where a new retainer gave me a slight lisp for two months, where I went out to dinner by myself for the first time, where I bought my first fish, and gained the confidence to forge new friendships.
But have all these new experiences obliterated old memories entirely? Why is it that I find myself referring to two places when I say “going back home”? It is a difficult task to remember a kind of previous life when you’ve become so immersed in a new one, though I believe remnants of it will always withstand time.
And when I inevitably leave this home and move on to the next, will my count of homes rise to three? Will each new step in life become my home while the past fades into a distant memory? What is home?
Home is where the _____ is.
Just something to consider.