Tuesday, October 05, 2004 · posted at 7:43 PM True North
You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? That idea of home is gone. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place.
- Andrew Largeman (Zach Braff), Garden State
Last time I went home I found myself in a strange house. Maybe I can chalk this up to the fact that it was late at night... or maybe it's a sign that my "home" isn't my parent's house anymore.
For the past 5 years, I've used "home" interchangeably with my fair Boba Town, usually using "my place" or "my apartment" when talking about my San Diego residence. But lately I've been slipping - referring more and more to "my place" as home (e.g. I'm heading home now, I'm at home) to the point where everyone needs to clarify "Boba home? Or SD home?"
Trips to my parents' place grow less frequent and more fleeting. Part of the reason is because weekends are sacred days and going home pretty much guarantees that I will be obligated to something or someone when really all I want to do is relax, sleep in until noon, get a Jamba Juice and go to Target.
The other part part of the reason is that it's not familiar anymore. I find myself face-to-face with a weird archaic refrigerator, I don't know where things are (which annoys me because if I was at my place I'd know exactly where everything was), my bed is back-breaking, and none of my stuff is there – save trophies, old bank statements, and clothes that needed to be donated to Goodwill two sizes ago.
Home isn't where the heart is. Home is where you're at home. At ease. Comfortable. Snug as a bug in a rug.
I think the ultimate test is where you go for the holidays. Burn a Thanksgiving turkey with your friends? Open presents with the rents? Ring in the New Year with your in-laws-to-be? I've never missed a holiday yet…
If only it were so easy as clicking your heels three times to return home… or find home for that matter.
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