Wisdom worth sharing from a young friend.
I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve said “I’m going home” and then had to further clarify where I’m going. I use “home” to describe a number of different places: My parents’ house in Fort Wayne, my house at school in Bloomington, Acacia 4 at the ‘Buni in Kitale; Kenya, the two-story burnt orange house with the pool in the backyard in Sabadell; Spain, the girl’s home run by nuns in Abancay; Peru.
It has come to the point where “home” is somewhat of an obsolete term for me. When I use it, no one knows where I’m actually referring to. It always requires further clarification.
And it hurts my mom’s feelings sometimes. Especially when I refer to my house in Bloomington as home. She so desperately wants my home to be with her, always. And while my home is with her in Fort Wayne, it’s a number…
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