I am home. Well, technically I’m at my parent’s home, which is my childhood home. And I haven’t lived under their roof for 15 years. We live 3000kms apart, and have for a decade now, yet I still feel like I’m coming ‘home’ when I visit here. Why is that?
Is it that my mom knows my favorite meals and makes them for me without fail?
Is it that I don’t have to ask if I can come for a visit or knock when I enter?
Is it that driving through town brings back memories with every street I pass?
Is it that I can be quiet and (admittedly) grumpy until I’ve had my morning coffee?
Is it that my favorite running trails, my ‘happy place’, are right around the corner?
Is it that sleeping in my old bedroom makes me reflect on where I was and where I’ve ended up?
Maybe it’s the familiarity. Maybe it’s the comfort. Maybe it’s the deep-in-your-bones happiness.
This particular visit to my parent’s home is significant because it is the first time that my daughter has been here. She’s still a newbie, only five months old, and tonight I will sleep in my old bedroom with her, while my husband and son sleep in the bedroom next door. The logistics of small kids and available beds dictate this arrangement, and somehow this makes me feel even more at ‘home’.
Jonas Salk wrote: “Good parents give their children roots and wings. Roots to know where home is, wings to fly away and exercise what’s been taught them.” My parents gave me wings; wings that I have used often and used well. But they also gave me roots; roots that run deeper than my wings can fly. I wish the same for my children.
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