I’ve thought about the concept of “home” some more. And I’ve concluded that there are varying degrees of “home.” It’s a spectrum. At the furthest, most home-y end of that spectrum is where my parents live.
I started to realize that when I was tagging my last post. I have a category for posts that I’ve written “from home.” I didn’t use that category when I lived in Peru for three months or at my grandparents’ for two months, during my gap year. I don’t use it when I’m at college. But, by golly, I’m going to use it in Texas. Once the best friend and I road trip down there in December (oh yes!), you’d better believe the food-filled posts popping up one after another on here will be all categorized as “from home.”
Maybe, if my parents someday retire to the mountains or decide to become nomads and circumnavigate the world in a sailboat once they are empty-nesters and my brothers and I are scattered across the US, then the place I associate with my “from home” category will change. Even more likely, if I manage to find a job and a place to live after college – though a linguistics degree is a far cry from a guarantee of that – then that place will be my “from home.” But for now, it’s where Mom and Dad are. And that’s Texas.
Just please don’t call me a Texan. Not yet, anyhow.