“You can’t make homes out of human beings.”
I never really understood what this meant. Never tried to. For me, home meant a pair of arms, a shoulder to cry on, a back to take support on. It meant a repository of inside jokes, secret smiles, and twinkling eyes. It was a listening ear, sweet words, and no judgments. It meant someone to fight with and scream myself hoarse at; and yet be my most vulnerable next to, and forget last night’s arguments in the morning. Home was where he was. For me, home was a person. Until it was not. Suddenly and simply. I was lost, forget the clichéd metaphor. I felt like someone had lifted me while I was sleeping, and dumped me on an empty island, where I would be doomed to live forever. Fore once, even my trusted medicine of good ol’ booze didn’t help. I desperately wanted him to sooth my headache and coax the hangover out of my system. And now, I’m going through life, like a zombie; dead eyes, dull skin, empty heart. “When home goes from being a person to a place”? Honey, I made that mistake. Nut now it feels like a trusted and invited guest to my house made away with all my belongings when I was asleep. Make homes out of four walls and a roof, darling. You can’t make homes out of human beings.