I can't wait to go home for Christmas.
And by home, I mean my parents' house in Texas.
But I'm a little apprehensive to be leaving home this Christmas.
And by home, I mean our first home, our home in Tallahassee, the place Aaron and I have made our own, apart from our families.
It's a weird feeling. I never expected that I would grow up, get married and feel like my childhood home was no longer my home. I still feel like that is home, and I don't think there's any place I'd rather be on Christmas eve.
But then we got married a year ago, and we moved to this apartment in February, and I've spent the last ten months making this place our home. It must have worked, because I get a little sad to think we are leaving for the holidays. I think about how much fun I had decorating and incorporating old and well-loved things passed on to me by my grandmothers and my aunts and my mom into our Christmas house, and how I love the few things I purchased on my own to begin my own collections that I may one day, God willing, pass down to my daughters, nieces, and granddaughters. I think about our Christmas tree sitting alone, and the garland drying out, and the dark house on Christmas eve. And I get sad about it.
And then I think about why I am ambivalent about where to call home this holiday season.
Because I have been blessed with so much.
And it's not in one place in Florida, Texas or Nebraska.
And I have to remember that home is carried in my heart wherever I go.
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