This one’s for you, Mom.

Home exists where my mom is. When I’m with her, I am enveloped in her warm aura. My mom is my “rock.” She keeps me grounded and glues me together when pieces of my shell break off. My mom makes me feel safe. Even if I’m lost in the middle of nowhere on a freezing night, I am home as long as she’s beside me.

When I used to go to an afterschool program, I thought of my mom’s workplace as a second home. Of course, it was never as comfortable as the real thing, but going there every day after afterschool enforced a feeling that I associated with that place: love. Many memories were made there. I ate my first ice cream cone there. I made countless drawings that my mom praised, even though they were utterly hideous. I threw temper tantrums there. I wrote the words, “I love my family” and “I love mom” on those white pristine walls. My childhood rests in that tiny space in Brooklyn. However, my mom recently retired, quite suddenly and unexpectedly. Now that her workplace is no longer in my grasp, I hate the unsettling gap it leaves behind.

My actual home will be empty soon. We’ll be moving out of it in the next month. When I first found out I was moving 6 months ago, I was beyond excited. I was on every site possible, planning out every single detail of my new bedroom. I wasn’t sad one bit. I was glad to be rid of this tiny apartment that could barely hold my mom’s and sister’s shopping tendencies. Now that we’re actually packing stuff up, nostalgia hits me with every chance it gets. I will no longer see the World Trade Center from my balcony. I will no longer take the rickety elevator in the morning to run after my school bus. I will no longer sneak up to the rooftop to listen to music and read. I will no longer call this apartment that I lived in for eight years my “home.” It will just be another empty space, to be inhabited by another person.

Another “home” of mine exists besides a crackling fireplace. I’m underneath layers and layers of fluffy blankets. Jazz music plays, intertwining with the harsh pops and sizzles of the burning wood. The Nightmare Before Christmas is playing on the TV. My family surrounds me and we’re all laughing and eating Chinese snacks. My sister and I share a bowl of herbal jelly pudding and my parents crack jokes. All is right.

The word, “home,” takes on many meanings when I approach it. I have had multiple homes and I will probably have more as I grow. What I find to be “home” now may not exist in a few years. Perhaps I will find my home in another person, be it a best friend or a lover. The thing is, I will always think of my mom as my first home, both physically and mentally. Strangers can become friends and even a spouse to spend eternity with, but family will always be family. I love you, Mom.