January 18, 2021



Photo by Stephen Walker on Unsplash

It’s a place. A dot on a map—metropolis, village, city, town, and it has a name. A name that is as different as there are places. Yet it sounds the same because it’s called home. Oh, you may say Omaha or Terre Haute or Seattle, Bangor or even, New Orleans, but the sound comes out “home.” This dot, this spot, this home leaves a mark no matter where you travel, how many times you move or where you live the longest.

Several times in my life this mark of home has caught me by surprise, bringing a wistful smile, a heart tug, a precious memory. Ridiculous as it may seem, my first awareness of home, New Orleans, being a permanent part of me, was on a train returning from a summer in California.

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