The Feeling of Home

Living at home is different from feeling at home. I am living at home here in a fairly-urban Midwest city, but the feeling of being home is 2 hours and 3 minutes away. Building a new place to feel like home again takes time, but it happens. The time from then and now has changed but I would imagine some things are for the better.

Home feels like sitting outside in the fluffy grass with Shel Silverstein or checking my oil using my dad’s garage, and my dad’s paper towels, and my dad’s sense of resourcefulness. Home feels like returning from work and seeing the lamp turned on inside the living room or seeing my old Boston terrier snoring or circling on the couch until she finds just that right place to settle. Home feels predictable, like the door being unlocked but knowing it wouldn’t be different even if it wasn’t. The feeling of being home is the mid-June warm summer breeze on the golf cart, as me and my dog ride it through town.

Home feels like being around a warm fire surrounded by people I know or having casual small talk because it was friendly. Home was my windows rolled down, blaring rock music with my dog in the passenger seat. Home was sitting on the living

room floor calling my brother “baby Tatum” because it only seemed fair, or hearing my mom talk to my dog as if she would suddenly talk back. Home feels like something from the past. Home feels like something that you know won’t ever be the same.

The way I left home was empty and at a loss for me, as if I never existed there. The groceries bought for my consumption just waiting in the fridge to be used, but I am not there. The spot on the road empty where my car used to be, or my dog quietly sprawled out sleeping, because I am not around to take her out and have fun.

The Feeling of living at home is coming back to my organized, neat, quiet, detail-oriented apartment now. It’s decorated with a variety of gold and green: lamps, mirrors, decorative bowls, framed tables lined with leaves and vines topped with glass. It’s usually dark when I get home, but I make it a priority to turn on small lighting and lamps around to make it seem homier.

The feeling of living at home is knowing the only person using the coffee pot is me, or that I am home alone. The feeling of living at home is the silence I hear unless I occupy the quietness, or how I have to build the courage up alone to kill a spider. The feeling of living at home is paying my own rent and managing my money, because living at my home does depend on it. The feeling of living at home is checking my mail only for it to be another letter that isn’t mine or how I have to grocery shop myself or how Shel Silverstein may never find me here.

Learning to adjust and feel at home in a new place is hard. It takes time, and some things changing are inevitable. Since moving, I have been living on my own for almost two months and have felt the feeling of home linger behind me every now and then. It feels like home when I copy how my mom made coffee, or when I make food that we used to favor. It feels like home when my dad still comes around just not at the place that used to be my home. It feels like home when I feel safe, and it feels like home when I see decorations from my old home in my new apartment. It feels like home when I water my tomato plant, and it feels like home when I talk to my parents when they’re not there.

The feeling of home follows me when I let it. When I make the choice to remember the way it was before things changed or being sure to Facetime with my dog although she cannot see me anymore. The feeling of being home is the taste of my ripened tomatoes, as if the sun gave the distinct flavor instead of growth. The feeling of home is drinking my coffee the way my parents did. The feeling of home never really disappears—it just changes.