I do not know what I thought home would look like but it wasn’t like this.
If you had given me a million storyboard options, I would never have been able to draw this out. I had no tools, no vision, no concept of something like this. Long nights, tangled bodies, drinking, laughing, crying, talking, playing and so little guilt, so little shame. We bring what we bring on our backs but no one is putting it on me. I can look you in the eyes.
My brother asked me yesterday what grace was, what was this concept that I claimed had been so cruelly and abusively taught to me and I told him it was a light, not a shroud. I told him I did not believe that God had anything to do with it but that in the moment when I sit in front of you and I tell you that I am fucked up and manipulative and I did this thing to you and you tell me that you love me, that is grace. It is sharp and painful and stings like a whip and it heals and grows something new in me. I told him that grace is not about brushing something away, it is about seeing everything and loving it as fiercely and bravely as you can.
It turns out that home is also about this, about loving each other fiercely and bravely and calmly. I used to dream of feeling safe but I only dreamed of it in spaces. Here I might be able to feel safe emotionally, here physically, here sexually. Because I was taught boundaries and lines and laws you must not cross, blank spaces and emotional minefields. And yet here we are. Home is running around half naked mixing drinks and making My Little Pony jokes, running away screaming from tickling and crazy faces. Home is you kissing each other while cuddling me and you are very beautiful and I am very safe and very happy.
I am 7, I am 19, I am 30. I am all the ages I have ever been and I am growing up. For the first time I know what I want to build. Home was worth waiting for.