I used to always have a definition for home. It was where I lived. Growing up I had several homes. The first one is the apartment. That’s when my mom moved out of my grandmother’s house, a place where I lived until I was 8 and my parent’s got married. This was our first “home”. A two-bedroom apartment on the third floor, apartment 305, 12 Illinois Avenue. I was an only child up until then, but I never thought about it. When we lived with my grandmother I shared a room with my mom, we had bunk-beds but they weren’t much of bunks because the ceiling was too low so they were set next to each other, so we had an extra big bed. Then when my dad moved in, which I can’t really remember when that was, I moved to the bedroom at the top of the stairs.
This new place was fun, it was full of kids that I went to school with so it was great. I could stay out later because I didn’t really leave the “yard” technically, I was always just in the back yard.
My next home was 92 Michigan Avenue. A place that made me cool with girls in my class because the backyard was shared with a cute boy and his friends. This is where I lived all through high-school.
My third home was and still in 31 Lake Drive, the ‘burbs. I didn’t really get to live there long because I was moving away to finish high-school. So home was where my stuff was. I lived there for the summer and got to pick the paint for the walls as well as pick the carpet.
For the next few years my home was still where my parents were, but I think I moved twice every year, from home to school and back again.
It was until recently that I realized where my home was. Home is no longer Canada, that’s now my parent’s home even though I still have stuff there, it’s not home. Home is now Los Angeles.
Over the years I’ve thought of all the cliché sayings about home. Home is where the heart is, home is where you hang your hat, home