This was the prompt we got during an online workshop about Creative Writing hosted by Creative Mornings. My answer to this prompt was unexpectedly intense. I remembered the people who must leave their home in Ukraine. The mothers with young children. That could be us, that could be me.

Home is the smell of Sunday morning. It is the warmth of the sun on my skin. It is the dance I shared with a complete stranger.

Home is crying after so much laughter. It is a room filled with energy. It is the place for the sacred and the forbidden.

Home is what I don’t own anymore. It is the absence, what I miss in my life. A hole that drags my deepest emotions.

Home is my father bringing me chocolates when picking me up from school. Home is being hugged by him. The smell of a new car. The kids on the streets. The popcorn full of sugar. 

Home is where I am lost. Where I am nobody and everyone knows me. Where I pray for the Gods I don’t believe in. It’s the place that carries me to another world.

Home is all I have. It is all I lost. It is more than one place. It is nowhere. Home is where I will never be again.