I'm one of those people who has been lucky enough to have his parents live in the same place for most of his life. Except for the first 2 years of my life, my parents have lived in the same house. So, I still talk about that as "home." And, when I go there for any length of time, I tell people I'm going home.
Of course, once I'm there, I have to kind of split the conversations. I talk about being home, but I also talk about when I need to leave to go home. Of course, that latter "home" is my current home in Minneapolis, with Christopher and the pup.
Which means that I left home this morning, after having had a really kind of relaxingly busy sort of weekend, to drive home. I got home around 5:30, and spent the evening at home with Christopher after calling home to let my folks know I'd gotten home. (Confused, yet?)
And then there's an even stranger bit.
Later this evening, I got a phonecall from a friend of mine whom I've known for... umm... 21 years, maybe (perhaps I just should have said "since grad school" since that doesn't seem like quite so long ago), as he was driving to his home in Baltimore from a weekend at home with his parents. We haven't had the chance for a long phone conversation in a while, and we talked for about an hour. And, well, that hour of being on the phone with someone I've known for so long... that kind of felt like home, too.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is, here's to the weekends of going home. And then being able, happily, to find yourself at home, again.