One day I told him, “Let’s live here until we decide to buy a house. I don’t want to skip around anymore, I want roots…and I feel at home here.”
That was months ago and now my skin is itching. I haven’t been in one place so long since I lived with my mom when I was barely a teenager. One year I moved 13 times. I didn’t even bother using garbage bags or a suitcase to contain my belongings, just the trunk of my car.
I skipped around between houses that belonged to friends and boyfriends and friends of boyfriends. I’d stay until the knots in my chest started to tighten and then I’d find somewhere else to lay my head. I’ve lived in homes, I’ve called places my “home.”…but really the only true home I’ve ever known is Jon. He is my shelter, he’s my panic room. It doesn’t matter the city, doesn’t matter the shape that the walls make when pushed together with a roof over top of them. Where he is, I am. Not just my body, but my whole self.
So I guess we will stay for a little while longer until I find somewhere else that’s calling my name. Another place to share memories and tears, laughter and arguments, forgiveness and everything else in between.