I woke up today and I felt homesick. I left home when I was 16-17. It has been 10 years and sometimes I still woke up missing home.
There’s the home I live in, but there’s always a home in my heart, the home I grew up in. Every time I thought about my childhood home and my parents still living in there, I had this nostalgic ache in my stomach. I had many beautiful moments there. It was the raining days with my mum’s rooftop garden. It was the blazing hot days and we had to blast our AC in the living room. It was the days I ran back from school digging through mum’s refrigerator.
Then when I was 16, I packed my bags really full and dragged them out of the house. My parents helped me carrying those to the car. Mum was crying. Dad made sure the house door was locked. And that was the true last day I lived in my home home.
I came home to visit many times. Sometimes, I stayed for months. But I knew I didn’t live there anymore.
The home in our heart is a place we always think back, missing and loving, but never can really come back. We all know that. The home is a part of childhood and when childhood is gone, that home is no longer yours. Many of us left not only our home but also our town, our village. We moved out of the house to a complete new place and started our lives there. It was an accomplishment. We started from scratch somewhere else and we made it. But sometimes so much did I wish I still live in my home home.
One day, my parents would call me and tell me they would like to sell the house because it’s too big for only the two of them. I dreaded that day.