When I was a kid I learned that home was where my parents and grandparents were. We were made to memorize our phone numbers and addresses. If we got lost, we were to go to the nearest police station and give the honorable policeman my address and he will take me home.
When I was in college, I learned that home wasn’t what I thought it would be. It wasn’t a place where I could find peace, security and love. Being home was traumatic and stressful.
When I was in my 20’s I learned that home had to be built. It didn’t just happen after marriage and having a baby. What’s worse, it couldn’t be bought.
When I was in my 30’s I learned that my home was where my son was. It was where my friends and I would spend holidays with our children. My home were several places in the city where bonds of love started to form.
Now that I’m in my 40’s I found another place I called home. It was in the quiet moon-lit filled moments when I take up my pen and start drawing. It was in the dark corner I go to when I wanted to find peace. I found it in myself.
And that’s all she wrote,