Home is where...

They say “Home is where the heart is.” First of all, I want to know who the hell “they” are? I want to know why they get a say, and why “home” can’t be where I am. Lord knows I gave my heart away years ago, in bits and pieces and moments and kisses and those embraces that last for hours. I don’t own my heart anymore. You do. And you do. And you too, back there.

I’ve given my heart to so many people, that I don’t have enough left for myself. How can I ever truly be “home” if “home is where the heart is”? I think, if anything, home is where you feel like you have the chance to gather your heart to yourself again. Home is where you find solace in knowing that the light kit on your kitchen fan doesn’t work because that guy who used to hold most of your heart couldn’t install it properly…. So you put an extra lamp in the kitchen, just to be able to cook at night. Home is where you have that room—so full of things you just don’t want to face, but you know you’ll need to one day. Home is where you arrive every night, and leave every morning, and where your cats happily shred your houseplants while you’re gone.

I’m a whole person because I’ve given freely of my heart. I’m a whole person because I can say “I love you” and mean it. If “home is where the heart is” then I wouldn’t be a whole person… My heart is forever out there; it is possessed by countless people. I don’t own it anymore—instead, those who I do love and those who I have loved get that distinction. My home is the place that gives me solace—it is the place where I go to renew my soul and renew my spirit so that I can continue to give of my heart. My home is where I am.