Kris­tine Schomak­er When peo­ple (artists, poets, song­writ­ers, super­heroes, pris­on­ers, sol­diers, sailors, lovers) think about home, most assume those are hap­py mem­o­ries full of nos­tal­gia, yearn­ing, long­ing, safe­ty, inno­cence, the smell of cook­ies, someone’s wait­ing arms, one’s own bed. But in truth it is often the oppo­site. Not every­one has a home, phys­i­cal or per­ma­nent. Some nev­er had one, some had a good one or a bad one and left or lost it. Home is some­times a per­son or a coun­try or a feel­ing or an idea and not a house at all. Some peo­ple car­ry theirs with them every­where. Home is full of loved ones, or full of peo­ple who think you’re weird. Home is the only place you can final­ly be alone. How old were you when you left yours? Did you want to go or did some­one make you? Have you been back late­ly, or at all? Why not? Two cats in the yard. Life used to be so hard. Fly away home. Home is where the heart is. East or west home is best. There’s no place like home. Take me home to the place I belong. You can’t go home again. She’s leav­ing home. Bye-bye. […]