You will know when you’re home because you’ll feel it.
In your bones. In your heart. In the soft matter.
In the way it smells, and in the images it provokes.
You know when you are with those who are at home with you by the way you want to sing when they are around.
Home is the story remembered that conjures up pictures for your mind to review.
Some remembrances are cold as stone; others are as melting butter.
Home is the flower that you pass in the entry to the Winn Dixie, that just right rose of a flower. Home is the chicken roasting in the deli, the bread baking in the oven, even burnt toast.
Home is that squeeze at the end of the hug from that friend who came to town just because. Because of home.
Home comes to those who work for it, to those who plow through and give more than they take.
Home is the office where you laugh at the same jokes with the same people day after day.
Home is where you are busy doing what you need to do to get to where you want to be.
Home comes from those few trusted souls along with you for the journey.
We all have a vested interest in home. Home is a keystroke, a tab away.
Home rises from tile and concrete, veneer and wood.
Home is crafted from linoleum and Sheetrock, with glitter and paste.
They will know they are at home with you by the way they want to smile when you come around.
We all know when we are home.
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