Home is where I write things down and forget about them.

I always try and write the date on things, but yesterday I came across a notebook with some writings and drawings in it, no date.

I remember staring at one too many, “Home is where the Heart is” decorations and being inspired to write this, I know it was a sunny afternoon, in the summer.

On What Defines Home.

Home means pets, gardens, and children leaving marbles scattered out on the front sidewalk. Old records are spinning, Rose Tattoo upstairs, and Neil Young downstairs, and cd’s are blaring in the kitchen, maybe pop music or gangster rap. We walk or drive back and forth to my folks house for evening swims and beers. I float on my back in the pool and look at the same sky that has been staring back at me, since that pool went into the ground. To the right is the tree top shaped like a turkey, and to the left is the garage roof my brother used to jump off of. If you are there at dusk and you sit very still, you can see the bats come out of the trees. Sit even stiller and you can watch them take a drink out of the pool.

Home is cold beers, mexican cokes, projects get finished and even more get started. Early in the morning, I take a cup of coffee up to the tree house with a cookbook to read, formulating a plan. the deck is cluttered with remnants of parties of the past, I can still hear our conversations. I can hear the laughter of all the people who visit. On one side of the house poison ivy grows on the ground, Cannas and Sunflowers try to rise above it all in the shade.

Home is where sun, stillness, and a soft intermittent breeze set the playlist of your life. Childhood, adulthood, dreams all dance through my thoughts, while I breathe deeply. I imagine that my home smells like new leather, cigarette smoke, Jack Daniels, vanilla. I know this isn’t true, but when I look at it, those smells come to mind. Inside three people, 3 cats, and one dog begin to stir and I know that this phase of home now will someday be a very pleasant memory.