Since Derich and I have moved in together and turned our house into a home, I know now what the term "home" feels like. Our house is not a permananent house, nor is it filled with children and cookies. Instead it is filled with chihuahua puppies, a clean dishwasher and photographs of our travels.
I have spent most of my 24 years on a plane or bus or wishing I was somewhere else and now, for the first time, I can't wait to walk in the front door. It may not smell like fresh cookies or look like a page ripped out of a magazine, but it's our home and anywhere feels like home with him.
We've created a safe place to explore who we are, who we were and who we want to be.
Who we are together.
Our home is a place where he pretends not to see me bite my nails and I pretend not to see him pick his nose. A home where we can be free to be whoever, flaws out and all.
Although we haven't sewn our roots into the ground, we've sewn our roots into each other to create the base for a long, happy life. He is the mortar to my bricks, the McCartney to my Lennon, and the love of my life.
My grandfather built his house with my grandmother in 1972. The home they built together hosted generations of family dinners, holiday festivities, a safe place to land, hundreds of firsts and memories that are the roots of our entire family tree.
January seventeenth of this year, he was taken from this earth. He lived a long, healthy life but when these things happen it never feels like you had enough time. This post is dedicated to him, for helping me put my wings away and realizing that a home is not a cage if your home is with the right person.
And to you Derich, I can't wait to build a home with you, whether it's with our hands or our hearts.
"I love you sugar. Welcome home."
Xoxo,
B
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