Where is home?
Home for a rest
Finding myself in the familiar
In anticipation of my trip home to Ontario, I started thinking about where exactly home is. Then when our plane landed in London at 5:30am, it was raining. A familiar sight. The same old smell of rain in Southwestern Ontario. We didn't pack an umbrella, of course.
I thought the rain was the most appropriate homecoming because it reminded me of growing up. I remember watching thunderstorms turn to little rivers rushing down our street. Standing outside on the porch, the air warm and the sky bright with lightning. The thunder isn’t scary—but refreshing. The wind pushes the rain sideways, but we’re still dry under the porch roof.
Watching and waiting to grow up only to find that you want to be young again.
Where is home for you? I found my home in a few different places. London wouldn’t feel like home if it didn’t rain through the end of March. Yellow cabs lined up along Dundas. The 2A heading towards Nat-Sci for another morning class.
A few things have changed while I’ve been away, but only a few. The market is still as colourful as always. I drank locally brewed kombucha and bought my fill of tasty treats. Then we drove around our old neighbourhood, remembering which houses were our favourites to walk past when we lived there.
Winding through the streets, we ended up in Wortley Village. Then on Emery Street, to Cathcart, and finally on Iroquois Avenue, looking up at the red brick house where my grandmother used to live.
The porch is different, but it still looks like home. Of course, it’s not my family’s home anymore, but I think a piece of me lives there. It knows which panels to jump over when sneaking along the hallway at night. It lays in the sunroom, and rolls through the grass to the garden at the back. This spot and that spot look just the same—even the ones I haven’t seen in a while.
We’re on our way to Calgary again. Settling in to our daily routines as if the whirlwind vacation at home hadn’t happened. But the thing is, every time we’re home it feels like we never left. Rainy streets to mountain views and back again. I leave a little piece of me wherever I go.
Where is home?
Home is in Ontario. It's by the lake. It’s with the rain rushing down the road, to rest in the pond at the end of our street. Home is wandering the crooked streets on the plateau in Montreal. It's in the shadow of the Rockies. It’s an early Saturday morning and a cozy Sunday night.
It's on the road into the wild and it's there when I sit by the fire with a glass of wine after a long day. It's everywhere and no where all at once. It's belonging. It's comfort. It's in our adventures, and I'm sure it lives with you.