September 29, 2014
My writing assignment for today is to write about the home I lived in when I was twelve. The twist is to write in varying sentence length, short, medium, and long. The short ones will be the most difficult for me. I’ve never met a sentence I couldn’t painfully stretch out. I’m long-winded. There, that’s a good start. Happy reading!
I remember both homes I lived in when I was 12. I can even supply you with the complete addresses, not that remembering my childhood addresses is such a terrific feat. Then again, perhaps it is.
I have lived at 38 different addresses. I have lived in only one state (Arizona) and two countries (the U.S. and the U.A.E.). However, I have had more residences than I think I can recall. Also, if I include the two times I was homeless, that brings the figure to 40. If my math is correct, I have moved at least once every 15 months or so throughout my lifetime. And still, I’m not finished.
I can describe all of my childhood homes in the same manner. Three bedrooms, two baths, a dog or two, my parents, my five brothers, my two sisters, and me. If anyone’s keeping count, it’s ten. My two sisters and I shared a room, my five brothers shared another one, and Mom and Dad maintained the master bedroom.
I didn’t bother me having to share so little space with so many people. My mom was a great organizer, still is, so we rarely had fights over the use of the bathrooms. I still marvel at the fact that Mom made sure all ten of us were cleaned and pressed every Sunday in order to attend mass.
What we lacked for in space, we more than made up for with love. My perspective may be completely different from any and all of my siblings. However, I grew up knowing that where ever I was, as long as I was with my family, I was home.
The feeling that I am home hasn’t always transitioned to the homes I have lived in as an adult. I tried my level best to create a home for me and my children while I was raising them. Each has fond memories growing up. I’ll take that as a good sign.
While living as a family with my children, I knew I was home. I felt I was home. Now, I’m struggling to duplicate that feeling. I am struggling to duplicate the feeling of home I remember from childhood. I’m struggling to get back that feeling of home I created for myself and my children. It seems a daunting task.
I want to feel I’m home. I need to feel I’m home. Unfortunately, that feeling isn’t going to come from an address. It also won’t come from the structure or the place in which I reside. No. That feeling of being home, the feeling that says “This is my home and I belong here,” that’s going to have to come from within. Peace, ~v.