It means different things at different times, doesn't it? Home. Where I grew up in the suburbs. Where I spent 18 years with my mom and dad and sister. Home. More generally it is Wisconsin. Or the United States. Or, abstractly, Earth. And now home is the quiet street in Viroqua where we've lived for the past five years. Home. It matters more than any other place I could name, yet it changes through time.
And now, I'm back home after six days at, well, "home". Back to the most recent one from the one I've always knows.
I spent six days in my childhood home mostly with my mom and my kids, sometimes with my dad, his brother, Pete, and my sister. I visited with my best friend from high school and spent a day rearranging her furniture. (Which, if you must know, is absolute bliss for me. I'm not sure why, but I love moving furniture.) There was an afternoon spent in my childhood haunt of "the field" – acres and acres of wetlands and woods stretching out behind my parent's house – playing with Lupine and our puppy. That hour or two might just be the sweet spot in the whole week. And there was the usual city business of thritfing and errands and exploration.
And now, we're home.
Back in this wee town that I love so much. Back under the big stars and the quiet and the darkness. Home. With a capital H. My home is messier than my mom's. Much messier. There are homeschooling projects everywhere and dishes that need to be washed and frankly a mop wouldnt' be a bad idea for these floors. But I think I'm okay with that.
Because it's our home. And nothing beats that.