I often write about home. To me, that conjures up images of where I am from, not where I currently live. But I’m being unfair and shortchanging this little place. If I had never lived here, I might not have ever figured out just how much more I love living in the country.
For the past 8 years, I have lived in this tiny white house in the middle of a medium sized college town. The first time I stepped a foot inside it and saw the bedroom with a wall that was one huge bookshelf, I knew I would live here. I felt it deep down inside that this was a place where I would breathe and sleep and eat and read and grow.
More big things have happened to me since I moved into this house than any of my previous homes. I cried, I cooked, I had roommates, I fell in love, I got married, I cried more. I found and left jobs. Late nights I spent writing and reading, finishing my English degree. Getting up going to class and then to work and…I became an adult here.
It was the first place I lived alone. Where I shut the door behind me and I was the only one left inside.
I started this a different way and then went back and began again, even though that’s not what this is all about. Some stories are not ready to be told.
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