A home is not a single, contained space of air and brick and
walls that hold, that shelter. A home is not a roof, not a
door, not a fence or even a window. It is not sisters and
mothers, not the picture frames hanging on the walls, not the
worn carpet or even the quilt that was passed down through four
generations. A home is not just family. A home is not the
things that exist within it. But most importantly, a home is
not a dwelling place; it is a feeling.
A home is fluttering heartbeats and steady rhythms, sweaty
palms and secure hands, tears and smiles, and everything
in-between. It is two people who find each other, two people
whose beings, whose souls just connect.
Home is fitting comfortably, easily into the compartments of
someone else’s heart. Home is falling in love and knowing
that person is yours. And knowing no matter where you
lay your head at night, no matter if the dishes are in the
sink, or if the dog’s scratching at the back door, or if
the paint is chipping by the porch, that person will always
be yours.
Home, then is not a place, but a person. And you are my
person.
You are the calm, but also the rush. The
comfort of knowing I will always have someone to return to, of
knowing that I am never alone. Yet also the excitement when I
hear your name because I know I’m going back to you,
again and again.
You are my laughter, but also my spark. You
hold memories, happiness, slices of time I will never forget.
And yet, you drive me crazy. You fire me up, make me angry,
push me away. You give me new memories, memories outside of
you. But I will always return.
You are my past, but also my future. You carry
constant reminders of the girl I used to be, yet you inspire my
strength. You build me, you unwind my kite strings and let me
rise.
You are what I know, but what I still long
for. You are my security, my savior. You are what
I’ve always had, always cared for. Yet despite that, I
still wish for you, day after day.
You are my place. You are my home. You are my person.
—Marisa Donnelly, You Are My Home
