where the heart is . . .

Home.

Such a simple word. One syllable. Easy to pronounce, easy to spell. And yet, wrapped up in this humble word is an entire world of thoughts, feelings, associations and ties.

Do you know that the English word "home" is not translatable into several languages? French, for example, has maison ("house"), chez ("house of" or "at"), and even patrie (roughly translatable to "fatherland"). Italian, too. I'm sure if one were to examine all of the romance languages, this would be a common thread. It's interesting, don't you think?

I am spending this Memorial Day weekend at home with my parents. Home in Colorado, where I was raised. Although my parents no longer live in my childhood house, I still feel at home when I visit them. I still have a room to sleep in, which makes me feel "at home." It holds photos from high school and earlier; scrapbooks; warm winter sweaters I only wear at Christmastime or in the mountains; dried flowers from my grandmother's funeral inside of a jewelry box; my childhood doll collection; old notebooks; shoes I never wear because they are too dorky; a homemade cabbage patch doll; empty cd jewel cases; etc. Mementos from my childhood; some from college.

Whenever I come home to visit, I find that, the more things change, the more they really do stay the same. My father will always have a stash of chocolate near his coffee pot; random mail from my college sorority will be on my bed waiting to be opened, along with Opera News magazines to be read (even though I get my own subscription in SF); my mom will stay up late cooking and watching Jay Leno; the fridge will be obscenely stocked; my bedside table has an alarm clock, a bottle of perfume, lotion and a jewelry box; in the bathroom, I will find - conveniently - extra razor blades, qtips, deodorant and shampoo. All the comforts of "home", truly. And, when we go up to Grand Lake, where I have spent time practically every summer of my almost 28 years - it's the same thing - the small comforts of home. Similarly, when we go to Louisiana - which is not often anymore - I feel very much at home. I get in touch with my roots, and really feel the weight of my genealogy and family tree down there.

It has been nice, this weekend.

I love living in SF, and it is home in a way, but Colorado will always really be "home" to me, I think, even if I never take up a permanent residence there as an adult.