I whisper the word “home” under my breath. Then, close my eyes. What do I see?
An unmade bed.
Light dancing on carnations.
Mist rising from a lake and evaporating into the horizon.
A reminder left on a bathroom towel that my body is brave.
Looking up at a plane in the sky and knowing I’m where I’m supposed to be.
March 26, 2018 marked my one-year anniversary living in Chicago. Back in Toronto, I packed my sedan—front to back and top to bottom—in the parking garage of my dad’s condo building, situated my dog, Stella, amongst the parcels, and we began our nine hour drive southwest.
I now find home in a state of mind rather than a particular homestead.