Home is a foreign concept to me. I used to seek it out in the brick walls and cold cement floors of different houses during my childhood. You see, frankly I've moved more houses than I can count. I have seen one too many variations of the same structure. Walls, doors, kitchens, bathrooms- you get the point. But I never felt at home. So then I eventually started seeking it out in flesh and blood, convinced that home could be a person. With toolbox by my side, I was convinced I could chisel a home in my friends and family. Alas, people come and go, and I inevitably found myself homeless again.
What I never fathomed was that home could be a community. Not just the people, but the vibrant spirit at its heart. Where the whole dining hall will break out into song for a fake birthday, or smile knowingly at the freshies breaking their CSI norms. I don’t need to know all two thousand something Kingfishers personally to feel at home. In fact, many of us are strangers tethered by our unique shared experience. We are all part of building something grand, in a place where each person is willing to help bring your seemingly crazy ideas to life. Where we wage wars against roosters, and lie in the same hammock with different thoughts. Having a community where kindness is a reflex action, where everyone rushes to not only indulge in a stranger's joys but to also feel their sorrows, perhaps that is what it means to have a home.
When the eviction notice came along this time, I was not hurt or shocked. I simply thought of the surreal sunsets and mumbled a "I should have known." As this enchanted home slips from my grasp, I ponder upon whether I am meant to be a nomad. Will I ever have a stable home? Despite preparing to wander the plains with no real plan or a place to go, I somehow find solace in knowing that I can always look up to the sky to count on the kingfishers flying by.