Home.
Just the word evokes a sigh of relief.
It has a different meaning — perhaps more than one — to each of us and, even that meaning may change over the course of time and our life experience.
Lately, I have been thinking about what home means to me. And I know it is affected by the passing of Dad and, with him, the last of our elders.
Home is physical and emotional. Two physical places — an apartment on the east side, where I was raised, and an apartment on the west side, where we raise our son. Together, they are where I feel safe and where memories of the generations dance in the ether. They are my past and present, and they indicate my future.
And home is the place where Mom’s portrait hangs, as it has for literally 50 years in the home of my youth. [One of Dad’s sculptures is in the foreground.]
I am unsettled that this will be the first time we kids don’t have a common place. A place where the three of us belong and that belongs to us.
I think we need to figure out a place for Mom’s picture, in one of our homes. Because that is where the memories of Mom and Dad, our aunts, uncles and grandparents, will dance in the ether, and where we can feel safe and loved.
Because, without that, home is incomplete.
