Going home is one of my favorite things about each day. I like to think that I’m somewhat adventurous, but no matter where I’ve been or how much I’ve enjoyed being gone, it’s good to step inside the door, greet my dog, and be home.
Every once in a while, I wonder if I love my stuff too much. It’s just stuff, after all, and the house that stores the stuff is just four walls and a roof.
Then when I really look at the stuff, I remember that what I love are the stories that go with the objects. That’s what’s so great about walking in the door. I’m surrounded by things that remind me of happiness that’s been scattered across the past twenty-six years.
There’s an etching from a trip my dad took a few years ago, and it reminds me of all the times he sent me a postcard while he was gone or told me about the places he visited. There’s a beautiful chipped vase that my grandmother gave me when I got my first apartment (I really like the chip). There are books from all sorts of friends, and for the most part, I can tell you where each is from and when I read it. Even the stupid stuff like my replica of The David’s foot that cost a whopping 99 cents on eBay reminds me of something. And things that weren’t gifted are connected to evenings with friends and lazy Sundays spent doing nothing much.
I know I would be the same person without my things–weird defects, long stories and all. But I like coming home to my stuff. It’s like being hugged by a long lost friend every time I walk into the house. I hope I always feel that way about going home, even if the stuff inside changes.