Home. A sweet word. A word which conjures up images, emotions, smells, feels, sounds. It’s word which engages your senses and your memories. For many people, the word evokes a positive emotional reaction.
For me, “home,” is a place of safety, connection, and contentment. And I’m finally home. Fully home. No more temporary or short-term living. No more using someone else’s furniture (even if it is really nice furniture!). I’m home.
Two weeks ago we corralled our belongings from Brooklyn, my mom’s basement, and a dear friend’s garage and after Hurricane Irene, we dropped everything off in our new two-bedroom apartment in West Harlem. The reunions with my linens, art work, furnishings, books, dishes, cookbooks, made me happy. Even if it sounds silly, I’ll still say it. There is no place like home.
I flew to Orlando for about 24 hours and when I returned, Mike had finished the unpacking. I walked into the apartment and didn’t see a single box. Instead, I saw my mixer on the counter top, I saw my familiar rug on the floor, Mike’s sofa along the wall, the pillows Mike’s mom helped me sew (and by “help” I mean, she sewed. What a gifted seamstress!). I saw the chest of drawers which Mike and I picked out together. It was the first piece of furniture we bought together. These little touches of Mike and touches of me are what, together, make “us” and make our apartment feel like home. Combined with the new chair we bought, and the art work we had in Brooklyn, our current apartment feels like us through the 3.5 years we’ve been married.
Yes, it feels like home. And yes, it’s good to be home.