Not my home

How does one know when you belong to a place?

Is it a feeling like love? Does it come in a rush, a flush of recognition, like the first time you lock eyes with your soul?

Or is it a more growing affection, subtle and sneaky, so that when you wake up one day you feel like you're whole?

Were you born with this feeling? Did you inherit this earth? Does a sense of it pull you back like a tide?

Or are you tethered to it, a burden, by obligations, blood, and time?

Maybe it's nostalgia that grows and keeps you, like moss on a tree. Or perhaps it's just the place you landed, after floating adrift on the sea.

Perhaps you're home changes season to season, this year's nest to roost. You'll move to where the grass is greener, but hang your hat under a temporary roof.

Maybe it's the feeling of kinship you need, attachment to your flock. Or the landscape itself that possesses your skin, your bones, your teeth—the mountain to your rock.

For some home is no place at all, but simply where they build their fire. Because warmth doesn't need need a hearth of brick and stone, it's not just where we retire.

It's where familiarity and family breed belonging, and time builds trust. A place can change you like love does, or simply kick you out if it must.

It's tough to say what it is about a setting that becomes part of you, but what I know, is that while you figure it out—it often becomes so.