Going Home

Some of my saddest memories from childhood are of going home.

My home was broken and jagged and filled with sharp shattered bits of pain and sorrow. It was my reality. And most of the time -there was just acceptance.

And so - at the end of the school day, at the end of a trip to the grocery, at the end of a trip ...anywhere...I would just go home. There was sadness and fear and a sense of inevitability. Resignation. This was my life. This was my family. This was my home. I would go...home.

There were times when I would spend the night somewhere other than home - it didn't matter where - the contrast between this other place and my home sometimes seemed more than I could bear. My heart would ache with longing for this other that I could not have.

Then always - I had to go home.

Staring out the window on the journey back home was torture. My throat would clench so that I couldn't breathe. The pain was so tight and raw it felt like I was swallowing glass. The familiar landmarks we passed on our way would blur before my eyes...tears clouding my vision.

Going home.

Such a long time ago.

Those memories are what keeps me from going "home" today. I don't go "home". My home is here ...with my husband. Where it is safe, and warm, and non-threatening. My definition of home is different now. Where some people speak of going home for the holidays - I know...I am already home.


Today I am thankful for weekends. The days you don't have to crawl out of bed at a certain time..the days that you can do what you want when you want. I so look forward to those days.