Home
Our London room with its arched window—my window always faced the foggy sunset. Two beds, two dressers, and not much else—there wasn't much room. My brothers were down the hall, my parents downstairs; and the dining room, kitchen, the garden, I knew them all so well—it was home.
A room in the country, with trees, trees, and a road outside the window. Another bed, but so far away—though Lucy's voice often reached through the darkness like a warm hand. Corridors and corridors I didn't know, a place so large I was afraid of getting lost—so far from home.
A large room with one bed, scarlet coverlets, stone walls, six windows, and a wooden door loved ones often knocked on. We reached this place after snow, a warm house we fled in fear, a long walk, living in tents, that dreadful, dreadful night—and then this. Our castle. And, so soon after, our refuge from wars, ships, and marauding bands. The place we lived, the place we loved. Home.
For so many years.
The back, back to the country house, the mansion that seemed small after a castle, but a place where we talked, ate, laughed, and made another, older friend—a place where Narnia was our daily memory. It was also home.
Then back again, somehow. Back to the first home I had known. Back to fog, to small rooms—to mother, (eventually) father, and old friends.
By then, I knew better what makes a home.
A home is the place I stand, sit, work, and eat, and also the place where my heart rests. Home is where life and memory meet. Home is the place I need a reason to leave. Home is family, home is the familiar, and home is where my heart stays with both what and whom I love.
A/N: I moved to a different state on Saturday (still in the snowy North—though no unfriendly giants, thankfully), and am working out a new routine that still lets me write. I have also been working on a nonfiction book. I still have about a month to go before I'm ready to publish it, but after that I should take up fanfiction writing again on a regular basis. Just FYI.