Home

“Where is your destination?” said an old woman who sat beside me at the airport. We both had delayed flights so, we had to wait at the boring departure area, and she was stuck wondering how to kill the time. I’ve been thinking a lot as well. Where’s my destination? I don’t know. I’m kind of trapped also, but of a different kind. It was almost 4 years ago.

Where is your destination? Home.

Home as they’ve said, is the place where one lives. Some would spitefully say; it’s an end point. Is it, really? In our younger years, home is where our family is, the ones close to our identity, a place where we settle and belong.  “Welcome to our home” hangs shabbily on the living room wall, a place where your mom sews garment holes while watching TV series, and your pet sleeps beside her during the afternoon. But, as we grow older, what is home to us now?

As I got older, I’ve learned that it’s not just a four-cornered room; it’s not where you live and settle. It’s not a place, and definitely not an end point. It’s in the children of broken families, fragmented friendship bracelets, torn love letters, smashed beer glasses, shattered dreams, and in the people who travels alone. Home is when you get to hold their hands and listen to them cry. Home is whenever our hearts beat together to form as one.

It’s where dreams are made, relationships are mended, songs and letters are written, where we drink our hearts out in joy, and people meeting new acquaintances and learning how it’s like not to be alone anymore. It’s where lovers exist, empathy dwells, and happiness stays. My home? It’s right now, trying to write a love letter, starting with a messed up idea, then ending it with, “welcome to my home”. It’s not an end point; it’s the birthplace of new things. It’s not where you live; it’s where you feel loved.

Where is my destination?

To you.

Love always,

Patricia