For a while in college I had post-it notes on my mirror each containing a question to which the answer was always in flux.
“Who are you?”
“Where are you going?”
“Where is home?”
The last one never changed. Home to me was always my parents’ house. This was true whether I lived in Springfield, Wichita, Fayetteville, or Columbus.
Now I’m in Lawrence, KS and that question finally has a new answer. But JT, you’re hypothetically asking in order for me to make my point, you’ve been in Lawrence for one day and already you’re calling it home? Isn’t that jumping the gun just a little bit.
No, it’s not. Because it occurs to me that home is not a place, I think. My parents’ house was my home because that’s where my family lives. Without them, the sleepy town in Arkansas where I grew up would have no more emotional significance to me than any other dot on a map. Home was my parents, not their house. Lawrence feels very much the same. It feels like my home for the past 30 years because Michaelyn is here. And wherever we go after this, that will be home.
Nobody but climate scientists knows what the future will bring. But for now, at this moment, I’m home.