[somewhere like home]
Someone once told me that home was a place.
A location. A structure.
A three-bedroom rambler on Highland Avenue.
By that definition,
My home has been wandering since before I could speak.
Home is not a place.
It’s not a white house with blue shutters and a yellow lab
Playing in the lawn.
It’s people. It’s my people.
My home is wherever my mom’s laughter is.
It’s in the same kitchen that my dad is making chocolate chip pancakes.
It’s my step-dad’s pontoon boat
the breeze like a shield protecting his family.
It’s my step-mom’s jacket.
worn and shared between us like sisters.
My home is my sisters cramped two bedroom apartment in Denver, Colorado.
It’s my Grandma Silver’s homemade hot dish.
It’s Grandma and Grandpa Huetter’s refrigerator,
Pictures perfectly placed like a puzzle.
It’s the hospital bed where my Grandpa Silvers told me he loved me,
just hours before he went to his forever home with Jesus.
My home stretches across the globe like glue.
It would never fit into
A three bedroom rambler on Highland Avenue.