Perhaps home is not a place but a permanent and binding condition. The mere idea alone of belonging, of being of a place, of having traceable roots to something that still exists and can be visited like an exhibit of your time on earth. Maybe it’s the pang of nostalgia felt when you realize the grass still grows in thinner in the spots where you played wiffle ball. Although you technically were just an extra body on the field used to round out the teams but you didn’t care because the boys let you play with them as long as you did absolutely nothing until they instructed you to because you didn’t understand the rules yet.
You feel pride in that your childhood summers literally wore out the grass and rendered the soil infertile.
It’s sleeping in your Disney sheets your mom hasn’t thrown out. It’s going through your old crap that is crap to anyone except you because those stickers were cool collectibles and those corny mystery books sparked your interest in reading. It’s the indentations in the carpet in the empty spot where furniture once stood but has long been disposed of, likely pawned off to you or your siblings.
It’s wherever you can feel, see, remember, hear, taste and smell the many experiences that are the threads that make up the rich tapestry of your story.