The same crimson door welcomes me with open arms.
The same pale-yellow paint covers the walls.
The same smell of over-cooked bacon seeps through the halls.
The same eclectic chaos of clutter covers our kitchen’s counter tops.
The same sound of my mother telling my brother to please pick up his socks rings
through my ears and I hear the same click when the front door is closed and locked.
The same sky-blue house sits at the top of the same rolling green hill.
These sights, these senses, they’re all the same to me still.
This place has all the important elements of a home.
It’s got nostalgia and memories and a family to remind you that you’re never really on your own.
So why—when I stand in this spot that I’ve stood so many times before—
do I feel so impossibly alone?
I’m in my house, but I fear I’ve lost my home.
Somewhere in the process of finding myself,
there were some things that I forgot to bring along.
That home, as I know it, is gone.
Now, the closest comfort I can find is in the familiar melody of a song,
or in the distant memory of your voice, reminding me that I’m strong.
My home, now, are those memories and the road I’m traveling on.
There’s no turning back, the path I left is gone.