Growing up, the definition of home is simple. I guess it can be a little trickier if your parents are separated, but for me it was simple. It was the house that I lived at, along with my mother and father. We moved around a lot when I was younger, so my nostalgic, childhood home wasn’t cemented until I was 10 or 11. This was home for me thru middle school and thru high school graduation.
Once I moved to Madison and started attending the University of Wisconsin, my definition of home remained. “I’m going to be home for the weekend” implied a trip to see my parents. My place of residence during my freshman year was simply “my dorm” or “Witte” During my other three years in college, I referred to my place of residence as “my apartment” or “coco jumbo” or “xanadu”. The last two being nicknames that my roommates and I had for our apartments.
The beginning of my redefining of home started to occur during my sophomore year, after my mother died. Trips back “home” started to feel different. This is probably one of the main reasons I stayed in Madison the summer between my freshman year and sophomore year. I didn’t have a job, I just went to a few classes and hung out with my friends. It wasn’t home, but at this point nothing really felt like home.
Still, “I’m going to be home for the weekend” clearly meant a trip up to see my dad. It wasn’t until after college, when my now wife and I moved in together, that my place of residences started feeling like something more. The problem is any apartment feels temporary, so it wasn’t until we bought a house last summer that “home” was finally clearly redefined.
Now, “I’m going to be home for the weekend” means I don’t have any plans, and I’ll be in Madison with my wife. The result to this change means that when I’m visiting my dad now, I don’t feel at home, at all. Everything up there is foreign and I feel very much like a guest. Items are located in different places, the smell is different and I’ve even found that my affinity for that house has dimmed considerably. A large part of this is due to the absence of my mother, and even after 6 years, time doesn’t heal all wounds. It also doesn’t help that I worry about my father and going up to see him only amplifies those concerns.
It’s wonderful having our own place that I can call home. I also really value my time with my father, both in person and on the phone. With that said, trips to the house I grew up in feel stranger and more uncomfortable with each visit. I wish it felt warm, inviting and nostalgic, but instead, it feels sad.
