“Are you going home for the holidays?” I don’t know even know how many times I’ve been asked this question this year. Actually, people ask every year. And the second I tell them that, no, Kyle and I plan to spend Christmas here in Columbus and not back in Colorado, everyone is sympathetic, sad for us. They mean this in kindness, our many friends.
I think what most people don’t know is that we are home. I realized this year that I have stopped defining ‘home’ by geography, that it has been seven Christmases since I have thought of home this way. I have started thinking of it as the place I am with Kyle. I don’t think of my parent’s house as my home anymore or even the state of Colorado. I think of Kyle as my home. It doesn’t really bother me that I am far away from my family on most holidays. Home is in the lights of our own Christmas tree, the smell of coffee grounds in the collar of Kyle’s shirt, in burying my toes under Madigan’s furry tummy, in our tiny red tea kettle, in the scratchy sound of vinyl records, and in the knowledge that home is where you keep your heart. Kyle is driving home from work even as I type this. I can’t wait till he gets here. Because after all, I am a homebody.
What about you? How do you define home?