The early fog over the water reminds me of home, or at least the home I used to live at. “Home” really was a funny word to me now. I used to consider home a house, a pantry full of food, a mom, a dad, a place to lay my head. But now, it seems like home is where ever I feel safe enough to close my eyes for a few hours sleep. My car is sufficient enough.

You’d think the loneliness would get to me, but in the end I suppose it’s the loneliness that keeps me afloat. I’m healthy enough to walk into the forest, to the secret lake only I seem to know of. Throw, skip rocks over the water, watch them sink instead of skim, pick up another, throw. The tranquility of the water and the fog and the ripples remind me of home.

And then I realize, no matter where you are, no matter who you are, no matter who you have or who you don’t have, you have a home.

You have a home, even if your home is a backseat, a car, a rock skipping over water.
You still have a home.
You have a home.