After a week abroad, I realize that I was wrong. And I'm glad of it.
Home is much stronger than four walls and a red dot on a GPS. As I witnessed when traipsing around my old stomping grounds this past week, places change. Schools are torn down and re-built. Businesses fold. Houses crumble. Roads are widened and those paths shift in new directions, tributaries that dry or swell with time.
Home isn't tangible. It isn't a stationary place, nor is it something I can pack on my back and take with me. (More is the pity.) Home is not a house, but the memories found there. Home is not a door mat, but the welcoming smile above it. Home is made by the people around you.
Last week, I went to Indiana and saw family and friends I haven't seen in too many years. I went home. I was with people I love and that love me in return. Today, I got on a series of planes and flew 1700 miles back to Phoenix. Home. My daughter's arms around my neck, husband's lips against my cheek, all in one delicious and warm embrace: Home. This kind of dual citizenship was, at a time, confusing. Much like the parable about a man's inability to serve two masters, how can someone feel perfectly at home in more than one place?
My home is a nomadic one. And I'm glad. Because it won't be overgrown by weeds or commerce. It is wherever my Ohana is.
My family. Of blood and of choice.