Personal Essays

Home Sings Me Of Sweet Things...



A house itself isn’t necessarily anything more than a shelter. It takes something more to turn it into a home: time, relationships, accumulated memories.

Intimacy with a place grows slowly - noticing the play of early morning light across the hardwood floors in my livingroom, the background sound of the river coming in through the open windows during the summer, and the way the raindrops echo inside the stovepipe on stormy winter nights.

This isn’t the house I grew up in. I have no venerable family history here. I’m not a native to this place.

But this is my home. And it feels wonderful to have finally found my way here.
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