You were my home.

The goodbye was terrible, as all goodbyes are, I suppose. A home is the place where you are loved, cared for, safe and warm. It’s a place where you belong. To lose a home, and not have another place to go to, that is heart-shattering.

But with you, it was almost gentle. We walked to the front door holding hands. Your hand was as it has always been: strong, warm and loving. You opened the door for me.

I thought I would be alone then, with no destination in mind, no place to stay; this home is all I have ever known. But you gave me an address. How beautiful, to have somewhere to go to.

We could meet there, you said,
until homesickness left me.

It was beautiful, because it was so gentle. A goodbye I had dreaded, but which enfolded before me smoothly, like it was meant to be. And as much as it breaks my heart, to leave my home -it has been for a long time- I must not follow my footsteps back to the front door, because I think a knock might open it for me.

I must remember how gentle it has been, how loving, and make peace with it. Not every goodbye is as mine has been.




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