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The Greeks had  a word called nosotros, that is roughly translated ‘ homesickness ‘.

And of course we have all grown up hearing ‘ Home is where the heart is’.

Since He died, I have felt that longing for home, for whatever that intangible idea and feeling of home is that resides in the heart. I haven’t found it. Sadly. I have felt unmoored, lost adrift in the open sea.

He was thousands of miles away from home when he died, thousands of miles away from me when he died. Our final conversation that morning was his wish to make it back home soon, a few hours later and he was dead. His body, his ashes traveled back, but He never made it back home. In high school I was in love with Thomas Wolfe and his book “You Can’t Go Home Again”. As I go about the business of learning to live again, I’ve been pondering that question a lot, can one go home again. If he was home and now he’s gone, I guess the answer is no. No in the sense that what we had together is gone and can never be reclaimed; but, there is yes there, there’s more to the story, my story, because I’m still here, alive, living, loving. A heart that is still beating, a body still taking breath, and those in my life that point the way home.