Going Home ©

I packed all over the weekend. Emptied closets, did loads of laundry, folded, and stowed clothes, crated books and began the process of finishing the perishable food I have in the house. Dusting the corners, I suddenly realized I am now going home finally.

Home , my own home. I know what it looks like- I have seen pictures on the internet- along with the floor plan- I have a rough idea of the space, and of what it will be like- have been scouring the IKEA catalog for days. I know where the pictures will hang, just exactly where my books and folders will lie in chaotic order, the appy lappie nook- and the little couch where I will read, talk on the phone or just laze. I know my dining table will have a little herb garden centerpiece. And that the placemats will be matchedly mismatched like my plates. My coffee mugs will have funny shapes- to match my mood. I will have clean clear open walls and lots of light- and low seating- little cushions and throws scattered all around. A bean bag- maybe- and a rattan rocking chair definitely.

So many places to live- my own little rooms. Self contained little units. But no “my place” feeling. Its not very secure knowing that this shelter too is temporary. There are rules to live by- other people’s rules. There is a need to make myself as unobtrusive as possible- something that spills over even when I am all alone. And roomies are just that- roomies, even if they are the best of friends. So it is not “home”- because the things of value that I call my own- are what I can carry about in two suitcases and a backpack- ( ok add a few cartons also)

But this shall be home. My home. Our home. Even if for a few days we have nothing better than a sleeping bag to lie on at night.