I was born, grew up, went to school and left for university all without ever moving. There was only ever one home for me, my parents' house in O'Connor township. A few years after I moved away they moved to a new house and I went to visit them there for Christmas. I wondered before I went if the new place would feel like home or if I would find it strange and unwelcoming. What I found is that the building itself meant nothing. Being with my parents was the same as always and the venue just didn't matter. Even when I wandered by the old house a few years later the sense of home was completely absent; the place was suffused with memories and history but it was just a place I had lived, nothing more.
I noticed the same thing yesterday. While I was away on my trip I greatly enjoyed myself and got to hang around with Hobo and play games, chat and reminisce but it always felt like there was a crack in the world... something was fundamentally wrong in a small way and I could not entirely be at ease. When I walked in the door and saw Wendy there smiling at me that feeling simply melted away. I like my condo, I like to have my own computer, to know that all my stuff is where I remember putting it and that I am master of my domain but those are just conveniences - in every way that matters Wendy is my home. Home for me is not a where or a what but in fact a who.
It is good to be home.