What is home?

Is it the people, the place, or the feeling?

Is there a home out there that feels familiar, that’s comforting, that’s welcoming?

One that doesn’t demand, doesn’t expect, just lets you be?


After years of being on the road with just my backpack, it is one thing that feels like home

the towel with all it’s stains, that has stayed with me through this journey feels home

the packing cube that goes in first in my backpack every time I pack feels home

This rosary that I never let go off which was a present from a host feels like home

each buckle, strap, scar feels like home.

There are only a handful of things that have remained with me through this journey,

just like people

can we stop and mourn though?

can we afford to? are we not getting late? but then where are we rushing to?



Is it the destination or the journey that is home?

the familiar bed, the known shower, a functioning toilet, minimal but practical kitchen, that could be home!

it comes at a price though, like everything else

I have to stop and ask, am I ready to pay?

on most days the answer is no but some days, often these days the answer is ‘yes’.

but if I was to describe home, I would miserably fail.

For, who are the people I want to share it with? whose shoulder I want to rest my head on? whose hand I want to hold while crossing a street? who do I want as neighbours? what street I want to live in, what people I want to be friends with, what person I want to be, am I the quiet one or the loud one? am I curious or tired? am I pretty or ‘couldn’t-care-less’? am I this or that? am I there or not?


I dream of a dog, but who will take care of my dog? I can barely take care of myself.

If there’s no place in my life for a man, will I find place for a dog?


I called any house a home as long as that’s where my family lived, but what is family anymore?

Is it the people I meet on the road, who wish me, treat me well, take care of me when I’m sick, or the people I dread calling for their questions remain the same, whether I like it or not,

Is it the friends I have not spoken to in years or the hosts who welcome me like I belong there?

I don’t know anything anymore.

I dream of a place where I could just be me, like here on the road, would you let me stay? Pretty please?


There’s no place like home, but where is home? What is home?



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s