I currently live in a house with some family. I’m used to saying “I’m on my way home” or “I’ll call you when I get home.” Sometimes it slips out and I have to correct myself — “I’m on my way to the house.” I haven’t had a home in over a year, I’ve made pieces and bits of it as homely as I can, but this house is not a home.

Home, I’ve learned, can be contained in space, but it is not a place.

It is in being on a first name basis with the baristas at my favorite coffee shop. One of them lighting up in glee seeing me again, or including me among the people she showed the fresh tattoo she got between shifts.

Home is in the car with my friend, listening to the same roster of songs we’ve listened to every day going to and coming from work.

Home is in the consistent phone conversations with my brothers that make it feel like we never left when we see each other again.

Home is in cozying up with my show having dinner, as I usually do…

Home, I think, is in a deep sense of belonging