When I Think of Home

When I think of home
I think of a place where there's love overflowing
I wish I was home
I wish I was back there with the things I been knowing.*

The last time I saw The Wiz, Michael Jackson was only mildly weird, and I was all of twelve years old. I remember sitting in the living room of a house that never quite felt like ours, a rented cabin (and I use that to mean “3 bedrooms, 2 stories, but built of logs”) in Mariposa, California, sipping Orelia (a tart fruit soda – grapefruit, I think), and hearing the song “Home.”

Even though I was surrounded by my own things, my own family, I knew that that building was not home. We might have lived there for a while, but there was no connection to the house, the land, the town, the people.

The thing is, it's possible to long for a sense of home, even when you're technically AT home. Why? Because it's as much a feeling as a place.

My mother was – ishere

*”Home,” from The Wiz

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