Home is blazing heat and dusty ground. It is fruit trees and days spent outside. It is a simple bed in a dorm-like room with kids of all ages that are like siblings to me though we are not related. It is towering rocks and camping trips by muddy rivers. It is chattering monkeys and cool cement floors. It is the smell of rain drops on parched dust.
Home is airplane seats and tray tables and mimicking the safety precautions that we have heard a million times. It is the flutter of excitement or pain of parting in my heart at liftoff. It is checked bags and lines and airport terminals that are all the same yet also distinct. It is being surrounded by people who are made exotic by the language they speak and the clothes they wear.
Home is cobbled streets, leaning buildings, and crooked streets. It is cool misty rain over brilliant green fields that are flat as far as the eye can see. It is sun sparkling on canals and bright flowers. Home is benches at train stations and hours with feet propped on the friend sitting across from me as the countryside flies by.
Home is mountains and brilliant fall leaves. It is the arms of this man who has grounded me. It is the small town community that is starting to grow on me. It is full of the noise and play of two tousled blond boys. It is friends who are like family and a yard full of kids playing wild on summer nights.