This past weekend was my 30th high school class reunion.  It wasn’t actually the school from which I graduated but the school I attended for 8 years, through the 10th grade. The 10-12 classmates in attendance, plus  a few spouses, represented 25% of the class. Many others live in town, but for whatever reason, stayed away.  It was clear that those of us that moved away felt a much stronger sense of nostalgia for the town that we’d left. Some of us visited the site of our old school, where only the gym, dating back to 1925, and the band hall dating back to 1980, remained. We drove past the homes of our closest friends, and all the local landmarks, reminiscing all the while.

For me, those happy memories and the feelings associated with them define the word, “home”.  It’s different from the dictionary definitions: the place one lives, or reaching the target or conclusion of something.  It’s more like the love one feels for one’s country; the homeland. In that sense, home as the adjective, or even used as a noun, or a verb, just doesn’t do it justice. It’s a feeling that is impossible to understand unless you have had to leave everything you’ve ever known behind and start over in a new place. Although you may love your new place, your new home, there will always be that special love for your other home.

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