Shell of a former home.

Growing up in Colombia, I was told I had three homes: my parents’, my maternal grandmother’s, and my paternal grandparents’. I repeated the fact like a phrase you learn by memory and just parrot about without really making that emotional connection, quite the same way I did with prayers and any fact I actually retained in school. Out of the three homes, I suppose I preferred my grandparents’ because I could eat my pancakes while watching TV in the morning if I wanted to. I was a very spoiled child.

And then we packed up and moved to Canada.

First I lived in a tiny Vancouver apartment, not at all large enough for rambunctious children to play their games peacefully within. My friends and I would improvise and play in the hall, which was a huge bother to the other tenants. We found a sizable courtyard one day, only accessed by taking the stairs, but that turned out to be private property. Then a condo in Winnipeg, lived in for one of the most terrible years of my life. Winnipeg and I had a rough start. Finally, my parents bought the house I spent the better part of my teen years in. I had some happy times, and some terrible, but I never really got attached to Winnipeg. I never felt I had much of an obligation to the place. At school, most of the friendships I saw had been in place since elementary school, and I hadn’t had the opportunity to root myself in that sense. So it wasn’t too difficult for me to choose a university based on how far away it was from the city and it’s horrible winters and feet upon feet of snow. Personal relationships aside, the real reason I never wanted to consider Winnipeg my home was the weather. I used to pity the people I talked to who said they could never really leave such a frozen place. I knew I was perfectly capable.

Except Winnipeg was probably the closest thing to home I had in Canada. I had time to build solid memories and formative experiences there, and in my decision to leave so rashly I now have no way of going back. Not long after I started school, my family made the move to Mississauga, Ontario. Mississauga is one of the last places in the world I would look to as my home; I’ve never really lived there, apart from a very extended visit spent praying for my departure to come quickly. But I also don’t feel quite at home in Vancouver. I have no family here and have spent the time hopping from dorm to basement to basement. These places don’t feel mine, and though I have friends here I hesitate to count this as my home. Many of them will probably leave as soon as university is over anyway, and then what will I have?

Thus, I cannot really make a description of the place I think of when I think of home. There is no such place. I’ve lost touch entirely with my childhood homes in Colombia, and even my parents have that feeling that there is no point in going back there. Too much time has passed and our lives just aren’t there anymore, ready to be slipped back into like an old coat. Is home where family is? Then why can’t I make myself at home in Mississauga? I’ve also got plenty of family in Colombian still, but being there is only a visit. In terms of memories,  my home is Winnipeg. In terms of friends and an independent life, my home is Vancouver. But there is no place that feels truly mine, that I can connect to on that deeper level. I don’t get off a plane at YVR, breathe in, and immediately feel like I’ve come home. (In fact, the last time I returned I felt terror and dread.) Really, I’m still looking for a place that has that comforting feeling of belonging, that I can really curl up in and feel like I’ve arrived. I worry I may never find it.