“Where is home?” This question was recently posed to me by my social worker. The old familiar adage is: Home is where the heart is. If that is true, where is my home? I used to say Northern Quebec for that is where I was born and grew up, where my parents lived in the same house for 40 years, where I could retreat to familiar childhood comforts and places.
During the time when my parents had to move into a nursing home and our family home was sold, I realized that my home was now with Chris in Ottawa, where we lived and worked and had begun to build a life together. When we moved back to London, I missed our life in Ottawa but my heart was with Chris and so my home was where my heart was.
Arriving back in London from my recent trip, I was hit very hard by the realization that no one would be there at the station to meet me, to welcome me home. Chris would not be at home eagerly waiting my arrival, beating Sprockets to wrap me in his loving arms and kisses. My tears began in the elevator and spilled over upon entering the dark, quiet apartment. How can this be home when my heart is no longer here? Where is my home… where is my heart?