Of all things it was a country song that brought it into focus. My husband and his sister were singing it on the way home, and as they sang I heard it in their voices. The lyrics expressed a pride and fondness of home. To them home is a town with a name, a place you could plug into google earth or your gps. To them it's a subculture, a #lifestyle, a group of people they have known all their lives. It's a huge piece of who they have become. They are from Wheaton Missouri, USA and proud. I'm from no where and its hard to boast about nonexistent roots. There is no one town or state or even country that holds my childhood. My home isn't a house with an address, it isn't a regional accent, it isn't a back road on a hot Saturday night, it has nothing to do with how you like your BBQ . But that night while they sang I wished it was, for that minute anyway. I envied that emotion I have longed for. To belong somewhere. For me home will never be a place but a collection, of trinkets, of postcards, of road signs,of zip codes barely remembered. We left so many things behind so often that it was the things that remained each time that stand out. Random things of our own choosing;the kitchen table bought in the Netherlands, the wooden handled hammer that was my grandfathers, the hand tied rag rug that went by every back door, the candle stick holder my mother's blacksmith friend made just for her, my great grandmothers' quilts, things that we packed away in boxes again and again. These eclectic treasures were tactile reminders of the people who were the building blocks of our intangible home. In #life there are always trade offs. My nomadic early #life blessed me in many ways, and if I could choose differently, I wouldn't. As an adult, as a wife, and as a mother it's hard sometimes. My husband can't really understand how hard it is to throw away the blue fuzzy rug that has always been in my son's bedroom, but conversely how easy it is for me to suggest we sale the house. I think sometimes it must come off as cold and detached when I move on from a situation so easily but even to a grown up Air Force brat it's still just new orders. There will always be new jobs, new friends, new houses. I don't think as long as I live I will ever belong anywhere here and no one will ever share my excitement for brown boxes and packing tape. Then I think what do I want for my son? And I realize I want him to have both. I want him to be able to commit himself to something, but I want him to stir in wanderlust and see new things without fear. I want him to break ties and carry bits of himself to roads less traveled but in the end I want him to come back home to me and tell of his adventures and I want him to be grounded in belonging. So I throw away the blue rug and don't sale the house, and build a port in the world for him. He can take the things of his choosing with him or he can stay its not for me decide anyway.