31 May 2007 - 10:54 pm

So I decide to call home, my roommate Yvonne's day off, and I've been meaning to ask her a favor, something that somehow I can't seem to do face to face.

I don't want to be rejected. I can handle it better over the phone.

Rent has gone up again at my storage unit, so it hardly seems worth it to keep storing stuff someplace I can barely afford. Time to bring it home again. So I need my bed frame back. This is essential to keep my stuff from storage contained, as that is the extra space needed in my room, only available if my mattress is up off the floor. That was the question I needed to ask. Could I have my bedframe back?

She said fine, no problem. She wasn't attached to having it in her room. I think great, because it's mine, as is all the furniture in that room she's renting, so I should certainly be able to ask for anything that is mine, back again, right?

Okay, but that wasn't the point of what I was about to say.

The point was, I was dialing the number for home. Home, I thought, conjuring up an image of my home. I could see my phone I bought two years ago sitting on the desk that my father gave me for Christmas when I was 10, and the phone would ring on that desk, underneath the closed blinds of the living room windows. I could see that phone ringing from the perspective of having just walked through the front door, phone on desk right in front of me. And my fingers did not dial my home number, the same number I have had for four and one half years, no, it started dialing his number. Crap, I hung up, one digit away from completion.

Because, you know, home is where the heart is. Whether it's been ripped out and stomped on, or is just beating quietly, it's still where that heart is.