Home


Where is Yours?

Tonight I went to writing group, and the topic was Home. We wrote about our childhood home, and the smells we associated with it. I was surprised to remember that there was a kitchen drawer that smelled like broken crayons and Flinstone’s vitamins. How random of a memory!

We then moved on to the concept of home, which brought up this deep sadness I had no idea existed within me. This idea of home feels like a time in my life, and like the garden of Eden, I can remember its loveliness but I am destined to wander about a desert yearning for the comfort of paradise. I can never truly go home, as home is innocence and pure love and a safe naivete.

Driving home I kept thinking about Potamus, and that this house will be his childhood home, but more importantly how his innocence will one day be gone. I can love and shelter, but the real world will show its realness and all the good and bad that comes with it. Today I am his home, but he is growing so fast already that I am mourning that beautiful sweetness.

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