The last time I was on plane was 4 years ago. I haven’t slept in a hotel or traveled more than an hour away from my home since I ended my road trip in 2019.
My wife and I moved many times for work, family, her medical conditions and better weather. Despite moving to different neighborhoods, cities and states where we knew nobody and had no roots, wherever we settled quickly felt like it was home. This was because, together, we made our places feel like home.
We brought home with us. Our pets, our furniture, our love for each other, our habits, our preferences and our attitudes all made our new dwellings feel like home.
After Ellen died, I thought I’d never feel that way again. I had to get out of our big empty house. I got rid of our belongings. I ran to the desert wilderness seeking anything – peace mind, tranquility, survival.
Home died with Ellen.
Last week I was talking to a friend about how much I love my life, my house and my neighborhood. Afterwards, I realized that this is home for me.
I made it without my wife.
I wish she was still alive. Life was better with her.
But she’s not.
She would like my neighborhood. She would hate my furniture and extreme minimalism. She would have loved Wiggles. She would have supported (and tolerated) many of my daily activities and new hobbies – even though I am a bit obsessive about them.
She’d hate my diet and would encourage me to eat more variety. She’d want to watch a lot more TV and go out to eat more often.
I’d like to think she’d approve of my home today.