When it becomes your home.

Growing up, I never felt like my house was anything other than my home. I felt safe and comfortable. I might not have had the most normal childhood, but I never questioned the comfort I felt from those drafty walls. There were defining moments. There is no place better to be when you were sick. My old comfortable bed that was molded to fit my skinny, farmer tanned body. If I had a bad day at school, I couldn't wait to escape to my home to get away.

I thought I could make home anywhere when I got older. I moved away from home as soon as the opportunity came. I moved to Savannah, and took on a room-mate. It had been his apartment, and I moved into his home. I never felt like it was truly mine. I married Kirsten, and we sought out our own apartment. It was kind of home, but not quite homey. We moved to another apartment, and that felt a little more homey. I sometimes wondered if I could ever return to that unquestionable feeling of warmth, love, and "just rightness" that I had felt as a child.

As I left my house Saturday night, I looked from my driveway at 151 Brooklyn Way. The grass was freshly cut by Kirsten, and trimmed by me. We had pulled weeds together. We had spent the weekend cooking and eating at home. Our two girls were home and safe. All of the lights outside of the house were on. It was a dark fall night, and the weather was just starting to turn a bit chilly. My wife looked at me from the other side of the window. I could see the warm light of the living room, and her waving me goodbye. It is a defining moment now engraved in my mind. My house became my home.