I grew up in this house. It has been what I considered to be “home” for a good 17 years of my life. Ask me a couple months ago, “where is home?” I would rattle off my address without thinking twice.
As I’ve grown up, my definition of home has changed. I will bluntly tell you that it is no longer this house. Ask me again, “where is home?” and I will tell you Taylor. I will tell you Sunday evenings at the grocery store with my mom. I will tell you sitting at Thanksgiving dinner talking about food with my dad.
I really started to realize this when I met Taylor. He became not only a part of me but also a part of my soul too, as corny as that sounds. Like there’s a very strong sense of comfort whenever I’m around him.
Take for example two weekends ago. I went to Taylor’s Power School graduation and me and him stayed in a hotel room. Usually when you stay at a hotel it feels a little foreign. Just doesn’t feel like your own bed. I didn’t experience any of that with Taylor in a random hotel room. I felt right at home. I’ve often said in my posts that Charleston feels like home to me and I’m starting to realize now that it’s because that’s where Taylor is. Anywhere Taylor is is home.
On the ride back to my house in Illinois, I wasn’t really excited to go back. Sure, I wanted to see my dad and be near friends but I didn’t care about going back to the four walls and ceiling that makes up my house. My bed didn’t feel anymore comforting than any other bed.
On my drive back, I realized that home is a person. It’s who you run to when everything else around you caves in. It’s who you feel the safest telling a story to. It’s your mom. Your dad. Your brother. Home isn’t an address but a living, breathing, thinking, vocal human being.