I was raised in more than one town, but there’s only one town which I’ll claim.
I wasn’t raised there, I came to it late,
But it’s it’s the home my heart calls to all the same.
Home is your family, your friends, and where you feel that you belong. Nowhere in my life have I ever felt this strongly, nowhere have I felt such peace as I do when I’m at home. It’s difficult to explain, as some get it and some don’t, but the sands and the surf of the Long Beach Peninsula have called to me since I was young, an insistent roar in my mind and my heart that’s difficult to ignore, so I don’t.
Being away from home for so long has been hard, but knowing it’s so close does help. Realizing however that it’s so close and yet so far, that I’ve become a tourist in my own home, is perhaps one of the painful things of all. I don’t feel like a tourist, I don’t act like a tourist, and yet my family and I don’t live there, so it’s hard not to let others identify us as such. My family doesn’t yet know the joy of living in a place that’s still small enough to enjoy, the thrill of a place where you know your neighbors, where people want you around, and where the world slows down at some point instead of pushing full-steam ahead every second.
It will change, as everything does, but the feeling never goes away. One of these days I’ll be coming home, and with my family, home to stay.
I’m coming, we’re coming, and someday we’ll walk the sands and say, “We’re home.”