Where Your Heart Is

Just back from a trip home. Home means the land where I grew up and seeing my dad. It used to mean the house I grew up in until my dad sold it after my mom left. That reference shift was difficult, even in my early 20s.

So we spent the weekend of the simple life. Simple food, snail’s pace, going for drives to look at the leaves, reading, taking walks, picking berries. The view alone is mesmerizing.

My last two trips home have been strangely emotional – R said he thought that was normal. I felt sorry for bringing it up, as he has lost both of his parents. Where is home for him?

Being home brings up many emotions: fear, longing, comfort, safety, contentment. Is it a longing for the past? For a picture of a nuclear family that is not mine? Do the memories dig up old wounds?

And in so many ways I see how I am my dad’s daughter. I wonder if a daughter ever stops seeking her father’s love.

These are big questions for a Monday, but it’s raining, and rain brings up big questions.


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