Home never felt like home to her.
The familiar surrounding always felt like a blur, a simple passing phenomenon to her.
Even her belongings were just that, belongings. They could break, mold would grow and something new would come along.
Her beloved Pusheen mug with the heart-shaped crack seemed to be glaring at her, daring her to feel otherwise.
Was her home in the warm embrace of coffee between her lips and the brim of Pusheen?
No. If she found a new turtle mug, she would instantly purchase it. The new turtle mug would be instantly be her favorite, until she decided there was another.
Maybe home was her sunflower bedspread.
She could recall many moments when she plopped onto it out of exhaustion, scrolled on Instagram till her eyes fell shut and cried till her stuffed nose pleaded her to stop. Whether it was boredom, comfort, refuge or satisfaction, her sunflower spread always brought her joy.
But if life blew her in another direction where she would need to pack up, she would not hesitate to get another spread. Maybe the spread would have cactuses on it this time.
It seemed as though she was attached to nothing in her house.
Because to her, home was of the people she had come to know, grew to resent, a variation of individuals who contributed to both her best and worst memories.
People make a home. But, that would change based on where the wind blew. Maybe home did not mean one place in particular.
Could she leave a “home?” Without a tear, no doubt about it.
Would she ever be able to call something “home” and mean it?
She would just have to wait and see.
petiteshark 