It takes a lot to make something home.
My best friend is college hunting right now in Boston and yes, it really is hunting. It takes forever, you search and search and still aren’t sure if you’ve found the right one. Something that long and tiring is not a look, it is a hunt.
She said it was strange to be in a place that might be her home in a year and I know how she feels. That was me a year a go. Less than a year ago.
But I wish I could remind her of something. Maybe something that she already knows but I would like to say the words anyways: a place is not home. People are home and it takes a lot before people, and therefore the place that they are in, can become home.
You can hunt as long as you want but once you decide, you will have to do a lot more searching and a lot more trying and a lot more waiting before that place becomes home.
You can be related to somebody by blood–the very same blood as your own, or as close as it can be given science–and they can not be your home. You have to give yourself to someone before they will give themselves in return and then you will both become each other’s homes. Sometimes, you’re lucky and you will give each other yourselves at the same time and there will be no broken hearts. Sometimes, one heart breaks while it waits. Sometimes it breaks as it waits forever because no exchange is coming. Sometimes. Sometimes. Sometimes.
You make your own family.
You’re born into one but they are just the beginning.
It takes a lot to become family.
It takes a lot to become someone’s home.
And sometimes becoming someone else’s home takes you away from your old house, maybe just by distance, maybe by time or maybe because you don’t share every memory with your older home anymore.
Or maybe that doesnt matter. Maybe the new memories, the distance and the time, maybe they don’t matter but how am I to know?
I am just me.
A house lacking homes, and a home full all at the same time.