Dreams are funny things. They borrow from memories, imagination, and absolute randomness, wrapping you up in a disjointed experience that feels perfectly normal at the moment you dream it. Only later do you realize that freckles flying around a room is slightly odd.
Even though my husband and I have four years of making our home together, and although I have not lived with my parents for close to a decade, in my dreams “home” is still the high-ceilinged house on Fall Wheat Drive.
I know it the instant I arrive. The wall color may be off, or the back bedrooms may be replaced by a forest, but the place, the feel, is the same.
Every corner is familiar; every spill of warm light from the many windows makes me feel golden.
There is the patio, nestled into the curve of the hallway where our border collie used to dig a cool space in the flowerbeds.
There is the mirrored bathroom where we had our best talks with Mom and twirled my sister’s hair into her wedding style.
There is the skinny window by the green front door, dripping with colored beads and ribbons.
There is the giant fireplace, standing solid like a mountain between the front room and the dining table—the perfect hiding place when playing games with Dad.
There is the pink and white bedroom where Grandma lay choosing joy as the cancer took her life.
There is the walk-in closet with the dangling light chain where Jesus became my constant.
It smells like shampoo, a hamster, and Old Spice, the crock-pot simmering delicious down the hall.
It feels like safety and tickle fights and forgiveness and growing pains.
That house is now rented, most of us are married, and we will probably never go back. But I am thankful for the happy past and crowded rooms that fill my dreams with home.
This post is part of a 31-day challenge called Write 31 Days. Click here to see other posts in the series!
Photo cred: astrangelyisolatedplace, (edits mine)