“Home is where the heart is.” I’ve mulled over this saying many times, and I’ve always wondered: Is it still home when you’re all alone? I’m not talking about the type of loneliness where you’re pooped and you just want to go home and crash and don’t want anyone to bother you, but the type where you have to cook for one person, eat by yourself, and have no one to share your life with. Where is this ‘home’?

What if your heart is in several places? Pieces left behind with old friends, an even older family, and places you can’t seem to forget. Can ‘home’ be a mosaic of different memories and times long gone?

I move to propose that ‘home’ is not a place, but rather a feeling. After all, there’s no other feeling to describe the feeling of saying the words “I’m home.”

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