A certain kind of sickness.

Home.  Such a tiny word. 4 little letters that leave a hole in my heart, a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye.

What is home? Home is not four walls, home is not the place you live or the place you work. Home is not tangible. Not a physical destination, not something you can touch or hold.

Home is a deep breath and the feeling of being safe. The place where it is perfectly fine to be held and have your back tickled long after you pass your 5th birthday. Home is the chatter of voices that make it hard to sleep in silence, the bickering, the laughter.

Home is where tears are cried and wiped away. Stories are told and lessons are learned.

Home defines our souls and shapes the lives we will lead.

I miss my home.  I miss it every day.