Home is where the heart isn’t

Home is where the heart isn’t. Home is the elusive dream we cling to in a foreign place. When we are not there we long to return, when we are we yearn to escape. We spend our lives searching for home. The fence, the yard, four comforting walls. The American dream, the unachievable. Restless is the roamer, stir crazy is the homebody in a cabinet of fear. I’ve been looking for my home since the house on Central Park where my grandfather poured the cement and we squished our hands in the slow to congeal mass. Two transient decades: the suburban house with the white stucco walls, dilapidated dorm rooms, a roof with a view.
“You are not welcome here.” I don’t feel welcome here.
You were my home once when we talked about what to hang on the walls and which sheets to stretch across our bed. Cold feed and my own fatal flaws drove you out and I am homeless once again
Where do you go when you’re at the end of your rope but the road sprawls ahead? I squint to see the horizon, maybe a safe haven in the distance. Dust and debris cloud my view. When was the fire, I saw no flames, just the post-wreckage of charred promises and burnt hope. I run now, maybe my destination will materialize as my internal odometer spins wild.
The mile marker never changes. The loneliness spreads malignant aches through my body. My listless heart pumps only as necessary to prolong this never ending quest.
Even the freshest rays of the sunrise shed no light on my home, not even the shadow of the sunset casts upon a beacon. The mile marker never changes; the uphill trek has yet to descend. My feet have walked through my shoes.
Home is the recipient of the soldier’s letter, home is the next departing flight, home is the old house where your grandfather died that you can only drive past since your grandmother moved out. Home is the treasure we lust for so hard to never ever find.

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