Home is Where the Heart Breaks

Home-is-where-the-Heart-isI know you’ve heard it. That catchy, sentimental phrase that’s emblazoned on white picket-fence décor everywhere – Home is Where the Heart Is. For almost 20 years, it made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, it really did.

But now, I disagree. What or where do you consider home? I was born in the small town of Bevis (pronounced BEEE-vis in case you’re wondering) but moved to Hilton Head Island mid-grade school. I once lived in the hilly no-man’s land of Morrow, Ohio before moving to the antique gift shop city that is Lebanon. I moved to Central Ohio for college, and still live in Columbus now. I consider myself a Cincinnati native and a Columbus dweller but really, I’m a conglomeration of every place, city and state I once considered home.

For me, home is where my family is. It’s where I went to grade school (all three of them). It’s the pool I had swim team practice in every day on the island and my favorite Hilton Head restaurant, Amigo’s Café and Cantina. It’s the halls of my high school and the antique downtown streets of small town, Ohio. It’s the loud boisterous atmosphere of an Ohio State game in the Shoe and it’s the broken pavement I once broke my hand on. It’s the island trails I use to take early morning bike rides on with my dad and the dip behind the plate at the old softball field where I learned to catch for my southpaw sister. It’s my big girl apartment that I come home to now and it’s the bunk bed at my parents’ house that I share with my younger sister. It’s my boyfriend’s apartment where we’ve cooked dinners together and his family’s home in Cleveland where I’ve spent countless weekends. If home is where the heart is, then my heart is broken. Into a lot of pieces.

Not that this is a bad thing. I’m pretty happy with the places I’ve been so far. But so just we’re clear, home isn’t where the heart IS, it’s where the heart BREAKS.

I hope your heart’s broken, too.

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