FINDING MY WAY HOME
The question floats out there. Where and what is home? The older I get the word resonates differently. Is home the one I grew up in and retain fond memories of or the ones I have created through the years? Each address holds distinct memories and evidence of various stages in my life. Frankly, some addresses escape me as I try to recall past towns that I have lived in.
At times I long for the Miami apartment I lived in as a young single. The balcony faced Biscayne Bay, the frequent gentle breeze and view were refreshing and always provided solace after a long day working as an art therapist in the psychiatric unit at Jackson Memorial Hospital. The days of only being responsible for myself, eating a box of Entenmann’s chocolate chip cookies for dinner if I wished, wandering to the Dadeland Mall at 7:00 p.m. seem like a distant memory. Did someone else lead that life?
I counted thirteen unique addresses where I have lived. Does one count a parental home even if you only visit there?
My childhood home where I lived for eighteen years of my life before heading to college stands out. I can picture the whole layout of my room, feel the heat that emanated from the register in the bathroom on a cold winter day. My mother would get up early to make sure her children felt cozy in the bathroom and kitchen. Hot cocoa was waiting as we descended the stairs and ate breakfast before the walk to elementary school. Tomato soup and grilled cheese were set on the table as she timed our lunchtime arrival. There was no cafeteria in our school.
Time flies as the saying goes. We reside now in a home in Florida that is centered around the nostalgic pieces I have insisted travel from one location to another. My father’s antique red leather chair, linens, and china from my mother-in-law’s collection of items that escaped Nazi Germany in 1938, all reside within our walls. They make it a home.
I am a collector—of people and objects that tell a story and the homes I have lived in—they add to the mosaic of my life.
