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"Though I understand I hold nothing more than a believable fiction, it sustains me."

Home seems more of an attraction than a place, a magnetic pull more verb than noun. As such, I suspect that it never resolves into a particle, but must eternally exist as a wave form, tugging and pulling without ever ultimately manifesting into any thing. Move into a new home and you'll find reason to amend it. Maybe the yard needs some work or that back bathroom wants replacing. The eye might well never find satisfaction, not even a negotiated settlement. The list of next projects will only grow longer with incumbency.

It might be proper to speak of homing rather than of home.
Even here in the Villa Vatta Schmaltz High, I'm at least a week behind my regularly scheduled thorough Spring cleaning, and it gnaws at me. The cleaning spirit has not yet moved me beyond the acquisition of supplies. I'm locked and loaded but not really aiming yet. The carpets mumble at me as I trudge between rooms and the windows remind me that it's been months since I set up the ladder and set about polishing them. I suspect that the furnace filter needs changing, too. Maybe I'm looking for a sign. I tell myself that once I finish Spring cleaning, the place will feel like home again, but I know I'm lying to myself.

The best this place will ever see is a little closer to home, always homing. Last Fall's window replacement project stretched almost to Thanksgiving, though I still have a little touch-up painting to finish outside, waiting on Spring temperatures to remain overnight once. I might blow off that first opportunity just to prolong the irresolution homing seems to rely upon. I'm not procrastinating but extending the longing that seems to define home as homing.

If I ever meet my home on the road, I might be well advised to burn it down. As long as I can see clearly into a believable future, one still capable of holding promise, I continue homing. During the darker days of Winter, I sometimes can't see to the end of the next hour, and I feel the absence of my homing then. I know of nothing which might stand in as a replacement for that future tension. It seems as if it stands as the necessary foundation of every present moment. When I lose it, I feel lost. I feel fortunate to have recently found it again. Though I understand I hold nothing more than a believable fiction, it sustains me. I am not home, but homing once again.

©2019 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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