I don’t know where home is…

Is it the house where I’ve grown up, the village where people know my maiden name?

Is it the house full of laughter and love, my new family who welcomed me with open arms?

Or the place where we are living now, maybe for months, maybe for years; our beautiful apartment in the desert sun?

“Home is where one lives permanently”.

Then maybe I don’t have a home…

Or maybe home is no place after all.
No geographical location.
No country.
No city.
No house.

Maybe it is the drawer full of old photographs, the hidden letters in the back of my shelf.

Maybe it’s my mum’s little notes I find in the morning when she has already gone to work.

Or the TV whispering from the living room when I come to my dad’s house late at night.

Maybe it is the smell of freshly prepared lasagne, the dog running towards us in excitement when we walk through the door.

The late night discussions around the kitchen table, the same old stories that are shared over and over again.

Maybe it is my children’s laughter in the living room, the song we sing every evening, the armchair where we rock them to sleep.

Or the boring evenings when we stay home and read or watch TV, the great feeling when I put on my pyjamas at 8pm.

Maybe home is all of these things.
Maybe there is not only one home.
Maybe home is a feeling.
Maybe home is where I am happy.

Maybe home is where you are…