“Home is where the heart is.”
My heart sprouted, flourished, and remains to grow in the place where I grew up. That place, however, is not a structure with four walls, but is rather a community that has poured their love into my heart over the years, causing it to nearly explode.
Saturday mornings wouldn’t be Saturday mornings if I didn’t wake up in a house where I could hear my neighbors mowing their lawn before nine a.m. Life wouldn’t be the same if I didn’t find peace in sitting on my front porch steps reading, waving to my neighbors as their enter our neighborhood with stupid, little smiles plastered on their faces. In the summer, I love nothing more than driving a block to spend time with my best friend, someone who knows me like the back of my hand. In the summer, his laugh fuels my happiness, and there is no place I rather be than on his couch in his basement, laughing for hours about family, friends, and everything in between.
My neighbors on my street are always outside, picking weeds, manicuring their lawn, shoveling their driveways, or playing with their dogs. Having everyone outside at the same time fills my heart like a balloon. We keep a watchful eye on one another at all times. We look over our shoulders to make sure that we are safe, and that no intruders enter our little bubble, and are unable of destructing all the good we have worked so hard to build up.
When I am away from home, my heart aches. It isn’t in the place it is used to. It isn’t flourishing or growing, but is holding on tight to the memories of comfort, joy, and community. It counts down the days until it will be united with its long-lost love.