I miss home. The feeling is like a tidal wave of pain, sorrow and longing. I miss the feeling I used to have walking in the door, like a wave of calm that filled me with a sense of peace, comfort and relief. Then, it felt like I could breathe. Now, my breath comes in short, sharp bursts.
It could be worse. I could be without a house at all. But I'm not. What I am without is a home. It might seem like the same thing. Right? I used to think so too. But what I've come to learn is that it's not. What I've come to learn is that there's a difference, a very important difference, between having a house and having a home. A house is a physical structure; it's walls around you, floor beneath you and roof above you. A home, on the other hand, is an emotional experience. It's a feeling of calm, an atmosphere that's relaxed and an ability to just be. A house provides shelter. A home provides safety.
So I miss home. Because now, home has been left behind in the rearview mirror. The only thing I want, more than anything, is to get back there, but the only thing that's actually happening is that I seem to be getting father away.
I spied it once, a way away, off in the distance. At that point, I didn't even have a house. Going home was a dream just out of reach. The locks had been changed and I no longer have the right key. I turn away with a sigh. I have a house, and I'm grateful for that. I just wish I could have my home again. I will one day. Just not yet.
