“How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.”
― William Faulkner
Despite my seemingly insatiable wanderlust, I am in fact a home buddy. And I’m happiest when I’m at home. One of the most satisfying things for me is spending an afternoon here in my makeshift work area in our dining room.
“It was good to walk into a library again; it smelled like home.”
― Elizabeth Kostova, The Historian
Sometimes, I’d take out the Japanese stoneware I have collected over the years, just to admire them. Is that strange?
If I’m lucky, there are flowers. And sweets. But always, there is coffee, French-pressed just the way I like it. Often, I would hear the loud, comforting sound of Kofi’s snoring, his chest rising and falling underneath my feet.
Sometimes, The Hubby would check in on me. He’d steal a sip from my cup when my back is turned, too slowly I think because deep inside, he likes to be caught. But most of the time, he’d be lost in his own space, too. I’d hear him playing music upstairs, the beat thudding all the way down to where I sit, and I’d feel safe.
When I’m somewhere else, stressed, tired, or simply sick of being away for too long, I think of this little vignette. I summon all the sights, sounds, and smells of home and of various little moments such as this. And miraculously, the skies would clear up, it would be less cold and I would be less hungry. I would revel in the warm embrace of home from a thousand miles away.
“Home wasn’t a set house, or a single town on a map. It was wherever the people who loved you were, whenever you were together. Not a place, but a moment, and then another, building on each other like bricks to create a solid shelter that you take with you for your entire life, wherever you may go.”
― Sarah Dessen, What Happened to Goodbye
