I now have two homes.
Well, two and a half.
On almost every "to do" list that I write for myself, I include "find a home." I think I can finally cross it off the list, or at least add a little check mark (two and half check marks) next to it. I don't think I can ever completely eliminate this task. I believe searching for a home will be my lifelong journey. A home and an identity. Same thing?
The two homes are Orem, bizarrely enough, and Salt Lake City. Hey, Orem, I don't dig your culture, but I like the quiet and the family and the mountains I can see so strikingly on my walks around your arboretum and empty baseball fields. And Salt Lake. Hey. It's a little awkward between us right now, isn't it? I feel like we just had a messy breakup. But we both still care about each other and know that it's no one's fault. We are most likely just taking a temporary break anyway. It simply wasn't the right time for me to be in a long-term relationship with your skyscrapers and nightlife. But you are still familiar, like an old jacket.
And then there's the half. My half home is Pleasant Grove. It's the town where I grew up, but it's such a foggy thing of the past that I can only claim it as a home through nostalgia. In reality, I go back there and I am displaced and confused. Memory is stagnant; places change. I no longer belong there physically, and that's okay. A home does not need to be defined as a physical location.
Okay, so maybe I have another half-home. That would be the Teton Range. The area is so quietly powerful that a mere seven days a year are all it takes for my heart to become greedy and claim it as a refuge.
Two and a half and another half (do the math: that's three) homes are a luxurious amount of homes. I am ready whenever the Universe is ready to add another home. I'll let you in on a secret: I'm hoping the next home has flesh and bones.