In response to The Daily Post’s weekly writing challenge: “Digging for Roots.”

Most days, I find myself looking through old images of myself and my family and I think, “Wow, that’s new.” Then I would have my parents tell me that I’ve said that before. Since I left my birthplace thirteen years ago, I have little to no recognition of the landmarks, save for the historical ones that I’ve read about. I can hardly remember my own family and their names, although that’s more from distance than anything. I always stick out like a sore, red thumb when I’m standing among them. I’ve never heard it said, but I’ve always known that I was the black sheep of the family because I don’t share common beliefs with them. I’ve always been drawn to the earth and its needs. I’m not certain, but I believe this falls under my father’s side of the family, which we know next to nothing about. While my mum’s side is Baptist, I am considered the first in my family to stray from that path and carve out a niche of my own with no regrets to the former. I respect their religion, and they reluctantly respect mine. With all of the travelling that’s been done through the years, I waited to choose a place to call home. Even now, I don’t really have a place that took my heart and buried it in its soil to keep forever to lure me back to it, but that’s okay. I’m still young, and I know that one day I’ll be able to look out from where I live and say, “I’ve finally found home.”


One thought on “Home Is Where You Make It

  1. Pingback: …These Qualities You Possess | Ramisa the Authoress

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