It is a notion that should bring comfort, not confusion. But, that is where it is right now. I feel like a little girl without a home. I grew up in South Carolina where over 300 years of my family lived before me. I lived there until I was thirty-nine years old, so pretty much in all ways that should be home.
We now live on the Texas Gulf Coast and have lived here for almost nine years, long enough for this to be home, too. David's family has history here, about a hundred and twenty-five years worth, give or take a few. The majority of our lives, however, was spent in the upstate region of South Carolina. When we both think of home, that is the place that comes to mind.
Part of me felt for a long time an incredible pulling to go back to South Carolina. I longed for it, yearned to be back where the history that was my family's was made. Now, that is exactly what it is - history. The pulling has gone with the closing of the last grave, the sprinkling of dust of what once gave me life, and the grief that brings hurt and its companion anger that drives away all that seeks to return to heal.
With tears and want, that door is closed.
This place will never be home and that place can be no longer.