There’s never been a place that I have considered home.
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.
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.