Finding Forty, Day 55; Home

I'm obsessed with a song.   Can't even tell you if it's new or old, I just know I love it.    It's called "Home" by Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros.




Quirky, catchy, zippy...it should make me smile, but for the most part it makes me weep like a baby.

I have no one to sing it with.

A used to be my guy, but we got lost somewhere along the way.   We shared a home, shared dreams and hopes, we even created new lives, but we grew apart.    We let our  home go untended, like the family on the street who leaves for vacation without telling anyone they're gone.   The weeds grow between the blades of brittle grass, the newspapers pile and yellow on the drive.   Abandoned, but not altogether forgotten. 

S felt like home.   His chest, his smell, his arms around me, those felt like home.   His eyes could smile, full on beaming.  They'd see me and light up, shining brighter than anything I'd ever witnessed.  I'd melt and feel more comfortable than anywhere I'd ever known.    He was thick socks and comfy sweats, a warm bath and hot chocolate, all those cozy things that feel so homey and right.   But as friends and followers have pointed out, it's over with him.   Over.    Him being home was a facade, a fantasy, more than anything else, a fallacy.

My mom was home for years.    I'd turn into her driveway and feel the pull of her love moving me closer to the house.  I'd walk in without nary a knock at the door and be engulfed by her essence.   She'd make my favorite meal...meatloaf with mashed potatoes and fresh green beans.   We'd drink sweet tea and talk and fuss over the kids as they spilled milk and played underfoot.   Every time I'd pile the kids into the car to leave, my heart would break and I'd fear that as we drove away it would be the last time I'd ever see her.   I know that final drive, that feeling of not wanting to leave her, knowing it would be our last goodbye.   She couldn't walk us out that time, and  I lost a bit of home when we put the car in drive and pulled away.

I've heard it said and read it a time or hundred that I am supposed to find my own version of home, my own nest, designed and created and constructed by me.

But I want an architect to draw up  my blueprints.  As I type this, I'm pretty sure that architect is God or whoever my Higher Being is.   I know there is a plan for me, but  it feels like no one has ever unfurled them on a drafting table for me to approve or make changes to.

I can't rely on a man to be my home.   I can't rely on parents, people I love.   It has to be me.   In the end, it's me.

Right now, I just feel as if I'm lost, under an overpass somewhere, searching.

I want to be home.