My father had an interesting habit, whenever he came home after a day or more away he would open the fridge and just check the contents. It had nothing to do with being hungry or wanting to eat, it was his way of confirming the fact that he had come home. I carry on the tradition.
I was born in a country that I was not a citizen of, moved to another country while still a child, lived in 2 different cities there and then finally we moved back to Egypt. Years later, I got married and moved to the country I was born in. I have no roots. I don’t share memories with a lot of people because the memories of my childhood were not shared with the friends I have today. When I started my own family I was obsessed with the idea of growing roots, settling down in one place and being buried there. I did not want my child to have to live through the same things I did. I wanted her to still be friends with her KG friends when she was 20 or 50. It is a romantic view. Not suitable for life today.
I sometimes wonder what home is. Is home a place? Is it the bricks and mortar that make the building?
It is a place, a time, family, familiar sounds and smells, a meal, opening the fridge. And so much more. It is the things you carry in your heart and yearn to all the time. It is that cup of coffee in the morning before anyone else is awake. It is the sound of the alarm clock. It is the shelf of books that you have already read and the shelf of books still waiting to be read and cherished. It is the box of old photographs. It is the smell of lunch cooking and a sink full of dirty dishes that no one else will wash. It is the place where you belong even if it doesn’t exist.
I don’t want to grow roots anymore, at least not just yet. I want to grow wings. I want to learn how to fly and discover the world. There is so much more homes out there that I still want to experience and enjoy before deciding on one that doesn’t move from place to place.