Home is chicken noodle soup when your world comes crumbling down and hot chocolate in the morning. The sound of your name when your mother tells you she loves you and asks you to call again tomorrow. A perfect sunrise crashing through your hangover.
Home is all the times your brother had to be woken up on Christmas morning because you just couldn’t wait another minute. The sound of a guitar being tuned and the way your stomach feels when your dad sings Sweet Baby James. A well hidden Easter egg and a long forgotten advent calendar.
Home is leftovers for lunch and four chairs around the table. The shelves filled with books that you should read, want to read, forgot to read, were given and never intend to read, promised to read, promised to return to the library, and started to read last winter. A lodestone, a center, a beacon, a map, a beginning, a memory, and a scrapbook.
The next time I break, send me home and I will piece myself together using the smell of rosemary chicken, the feel of arbutus trees, and the sound of rain.