Tonight I cried from homesickness, for the first time in a long time.
The thing is, I'm caught in the middle of three homes, but my heart is not fully in any of them. My family home sometimes seems so many more miles away than the 100 which separate us, the sound of a voice only causes a yearning for the arms of my family, but at the same time, I know that my time in that house is limited. Whatever I make of myself, I will soon have to leave it, to create a space for myself, a life for myself, and so the first home, while welcoming and familiar lives on without me, and this is breaking my heart.
My second home is also ending. While it has not been the foundation for the magic I imagined freshers year at uni would bring me, it has become my place. As each of the people who shared it with me leaves, in one way or another, I feel the wind begin to creep through the cracks, as another home, a temporary home yields to the constant change my life has become. While I am anxious to return to my family, I hesitate to fill the boxes, as if somehow moving the things I love in to them will take them away forever.
And yet I anticipate my new home, my first house, the home I chose, paid for and dreamed. I am projecting all my hopes and prayers in to this new vessel. The little women I will share it with, all with their own dreams, what we will make of it, who will come to be a part of it. All of these questions burn with a nauseatingly anxious excitement, for the home which I hope will make everything make sense.
As I work to pay for my one small fantasy, I hope most of all, to find a place I can pour my heart in to.
A home, a hearth, a heart.