How does one know when a place is home? Are there any signs around to read, are there old fingerprints to mark a sense of belonging? Is home a place or a feeling? Does one feel home when surrounded by love and kindness? Do we strive for communion when reaching for a roof ahead of our heads?
Looking up to the skies at times we see signs as words written on a blank yellowed by time piece of paper. Birds, winds, clouds, trees, all write these words for us, and is up to us to read and understand their meaning.
In one of those days, I found my home.