Through the twenty something years, I think I’ve moved a decent amount, from moving a couple of streets down to leaving a continent for another. I’ve never had a concrete image of what home is or my childhood room since it changed so often.
When I think about home, I think about a place I can be free. Freely expressing myself without being judged, without feeling self-conscious, without putting on the fake front. I dance and skip around the house in my over-sized pajamas, eat food straight from the pot, wear a face mask while reading a catalog.
Home is also where meals are cooked every night from scratch. Television can be heard playing on weekend mornings. Even though our family do not say things like “welcome home” or “how was your day,” it’s a place that is the most welcoming and feels the most comfortable.
I don’t remember much about the house I lived in when I was a baby. The only memory I have of it is a spotless dark wooden floor. I spent all of my childhood with my grandparents, and home was where I observed my grandmother’s every action, while she cooked meals, bought produces, practiced calligraphy, etc. My mom always said I remind her of my grandmother, from my taste in music to my taste in food and snacks.
Home is somewhere I’m free while slowing shaping who I am.