Many say home is tangible; it is an actual space one can walk through. It consists of four walls and unmatching furniture your parents put together throughout the years. It is the coo coo clock in the hallway that has long stopped working. It is the bedsheets from your childhood shoved away somewhere in the back of the closet. It is the familiar layout and the same annoying, never fixed patio screen door.
For some. For me, I feel like home is a moment in time. Home is many moments in time. Sometimes, if I am lucky, I get to vividly enjoy the “now” of a home because the moment goes away ever-so-quickly.
Home disappears when people in it disappear. When I walk through my parent’s house and I realize my Mother will never walk through those hallways again I feel absolutely no attachment to the objects scattered around the house. Home was not home because it had the familiar pots and pans my Dad loved to cook in. Home was home because it echoed the laughter of my Dad. When there was no one there that was left, home became an empty, tangible space.