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  • Writer's picturewhit


Here I am sitting in the airoprt waiting to fly back to my parents and to the house I've painted, loved, and cherished for years. Yet somehow the idea of home is here. It's in the bloved sister and the eight adorable kids I just waved good bye to. It's in the cobalt blue and teal signs saying "passenger pick-up" around the terminal. It's in the brother who's flying a few days after me. Home is in the people I love who I'm flying over and missing. But home is more than people and places and paintings, it's the love that I've found in every heart I see in every place I've been. It's in the kid next to me zoned out on his phone with scars up and down his arms. It's in the child over there screaming for her Netflix to stop buffering. It's in the text message I just got from an old, forgotten friend. It's in the man who just handed a tissue to the crying mother sending her son off on a church mission. Home and love are so much more than the naive ideas I once clung to.

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