The Death of Home
The home I once knew died the moment my father did. I am certain of that now. That unnamed feeling of being home, that strange combination of comfort, nostalgia, and security, has long vanished, leaving it a husk of its former self, the vacant shell of the home I once knew.
I knew that fallout from tragedy was inevitable; I feel that we all know this fact. But, the power it wielded, the power it had to dissolve the most cherished of ideas, can never be known unless experienced. The abstract ideas floating in the ether of my mind, of all of our minds, could never prepare for the cruel realities of living. A single death led to the death of so much more: the death of ideas, of dreams. It led to the death of my home.
Being home again solidified this idea, this idea that my old concept of home is as dead as my father. There now only exists an uneasiness while there, as if the house itself was clinging to its old existence. It tries valiantly to act as if it is still whole, but the irreparable damage has been done. It is no longer home to me, only a sad reminder of the joys that I once had within its walls.
The dead, however, still have their uses, and my time spent within the walls of my old home reinforced the ideas I had that inspired this journey. Home is still out there in some form that is foreign to me, and I will find it. And, I have death to thank for that. Death, despite the depths of its sorrows, birthed an insatiable thirst for life: the life that comes from searching for a home.