Vocalist/Composer, Artisan, & Lover of Beautiful Things

I Am Home

"I'm a wayfarer," she proclaimed loudly of herself. "A vagabond! I seek no place outside of myself. Where I am, so is home."

Her mind recalls flight. She was luggage. Not to be construed as inanimate or invaluable. Just let it be reflected she had no say. She was carried. As one would carry luggage. It wasn't much at first. On any given day from the backseat of a car, she'd point and smile. "I used to live there," she'd state with pride. 

She'd settled in. New place. New surroundings. Same school. Same church. Same home. It wasn't much at first. When suddenly, she was being packed again. It would be more than a few days before the next time she would be able to point to her former resting place, though not for lack of trying. She was luggage. 

"I'm not from here! I don't belong here! I want to go home!" She lamented. Maybe she thought her tears would form an ocean and carry her back to base. Maybe she thought she'd flood the place and she'd be packed again in effort to restore what she thought she'd lost. 

She never quite settled in. New place. New surroundings. New school. New church. 

No home. Not for lack of trying. 

She returns to the place she never belonged. As she walks through air thick with memories of love and laughter–touches fragments of trinkets that remind her of a time long gone–she feels the sudden release of a breath she never knew she was holding. She realizes in one short moment:

She was never luggage. She was home. SHE was home.