Write 31 Days, Day 8

There’s never been a place that I have considered home.
Not really.

I lived in 10 different places growing up. Different houses, different cities, different states, different countries.
Houses rented, shared, borrowed, lost.

I’ve grown up as a wanderer. A searcher.
I’ve never been able to identify with a place.
I’ve learned that home is a people.

Those people.

Somewhere, I found home. Or it found me. I still don’t know which. Or even when or how.

I just know that it wasn’t, but now is.

And it seems like it’s always been.

Maybe it has.

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