Mindy Fortune

I was wondering when does “home” become “home?” I find myself saying when I go visit my parents in Maryland, I’m going home. Alas, it is no longer my home. I am not there more than 2 weeks every year, I don’t have any belongings there, and my parents don’t even live in the same town that I grew up in anymore so how can that possibly be considered home? Where I live now, is a rented apartment that every year when the lease is up the roommates (whoever it is that particular year as I have out-lived most of them in this place) discuss whether or not we will move. Would this discussion be happening if I referred to this place as “home?” I have become quite accustomed to where I live now. In fact, a place would have to be pretty darn tootin good for me to move out. I suppose if I buy a house, that would be a good reason to move. I guess then I could call that “home” cause it would be mine. Now I’m just kind of renting a place to take my shoes off at night. To occasionally cook dinner at then watch some Seinfeld reruns with the roomies. To drink so much wine at that the fish I ate for dinner come swimming back upstream later that night. To yell at my neighbors when they make too much noise, but then curse them when they say I’m making too much noise. To come home to after a trip back “home” for a week every Christmas. Huh, I guess I can call this place home. Or at least where my heart is. Nah, thats too cheesy. How about, where I come to instead of sleeping outside on the grass next to a small pile of dog poo from my neighbor’s teeny tiny dog, that while cute, still has stinky shit.