Finding a home is a difficult thing. A few weeks ago, I traveled to Salt Lake City with my former boss and good friend, S Morgan. I had an interview, and she had to go house hunting. The interview went really well.
As we drove from Pleasant Grove to Brigham City and searched condos, houses, and half-a-doubles, I was trying to imagine trading in a home I've made into a safe haven for some unknown. With noisy neighbors. Less square footage.
I've had several places that were home to me. A drafty narrow house built on the side of a river bank in Pennsylvania. A crowded apartment that smelled like stale spices in Idaho. Somewhere between two parking lots at the base of a hill in a teeny tiny town. And a young man's arms.
Each place had been hard to leave, and though I may sometime revisit each, it's never the same. There's been transition periods in between, sometimes lasting years. I know that I have out grown places. I don't know where my next home will be. My stuff is in storage in a different town. And my bed is wherever I can stretch out.
But a job is a good start. Thanks for the welcome, SLC.