Before moving to Pembroke a year ago, the south shore was just a cluster of nondescript towns standing in the way between me and my vacation on Cape Cod. Now its home.
That got me to thinking. What MAKES a home? A family?
I’ve never been one to limit my definition of “home” to a 3-bedroom Colonial with a station wagon in the driveway and a white picket fence.
I feel more at home here in my Pembroke apartment than any other place I’ve lived.
I’m surrounded by the things I love. Humorous things — like comic book-style prints on the wall, and kitchen stools with a knife, fork and spoon for a backrest.
There’s a stack of books in every room. And a writer’s corner tucked in between two big windows. I sit there, looking out the window like an Italian grandma, and watch everyone’s comings and goings as I write about life here on the south shore.
I live by myself, but I’m never for want of family. My mom and dad live north of Boston. My sister and her family are just a phone call or email away in Raleigh, North Carolina. Sunday nights are reserved for book-group-discussions-by-phone with my 9 year old niece.
I never spend a holiday solo. And there are special friends around the country who are my “first call” when there’s good – or bad news — to share. This is my family. A family of my choosing. One I cobbled together. There’s no husband. No son or daughter. But my home is never lacking love – or laughter — and my heart is always full.
Cliché as it may be, I guess what they say IS true: Home is where the heart is.