With my departure date for St. Louis moved up from four weeks from now to next Monday, I’m going through all kinds of mood swings and freak out stages. I’m ecstatic to be embarking on such an adventure, and I’m so excited about what the future holds. But with my turbulent history with moving, I’m also really nervous about doing this. I’m extremely sad to be leaving what I now consider my hometown, and leaving people I love.
I’ve called Georgia my home, because my roots and family are there.
I’ve called Indiana my home, because I’ve spent more time here than anywhere.
I’ve called Italy my home, because that’s the first new place I lived with excited, new eyes. And because of its breathtaking, foggy mornings. I love foggy mornings.
I’ve called Paris my home, because it’s where I became “me.” It’s where I cried, where I found beauty in the world sitting below the Sacre Coeur looking over the city, and then where I realized life could be beautiful.
I’ve called Muncie my home, because, goodness, everything.
I’ve called friends my home, even though they’re scattered across the world, because we went through the hardest times together and because I can call them at any time and it’s like we never parted.
I’ve called a person and a few friends home, because relationships and friendships do that sometimes. And when you swim in the White River in Muncie with people, I think the radioactive chemicals in the water bind you all together in some weird way.
I have an atypical concept of home. I have bits and pieces of places and people that make up “home,” and I can’t wait to add another to the list.
Also, I discovered that at 24, I have accumulated thirteen boxes worth of books. I’m very okay with this.
