Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.
—James Joyce

Wherever you go, right there you are—
on the deck of a boat or the seat of a car.

On a train, on a plane, on a bench, in a bind,
you’re the one piece of luggage you can’t leave behind.

Within you, a country no border can claim,
a passport that’s stamped by your soul’s quiet flame.

And yet though you roam, your heart’s never far
from the light that stays lit, from the door left ajar.

For a house isn’t bricks and a home isn’t beams,
home’s just the voice at the back of your dreams—

The voice that says welcome, you’re known, warts and all,
take a seat by the fire, come in from the squall.

And family’s the rope that frays but won’t break,
the bond that holds fast for each other’s sake.

Through distance, through silence, through years spent apart,
this spare room is kept in the house of the heart.

It’s the place that stays open when all else is shut,
where they love you as you and lift you mid-rut.

Where it’s fine to be you — not the best, not the brave—
just the you that showed up, just the you that they gave.

Here you’re free to say nothing when nothing needs said,
free to lie safe and still with the noise in your head.

Free to long, to be lost, to be sad, to be small,
free to sit with your shadows and welcome them all.

Free of wrath, free of rage, free of sadness and spite,
here you have room to breathe and some space to get right.

Not a fix but a flame that stays lit through the night,
turning wreckage to rest, and then rest into light.

So travel the map, roam far and roam wide,
but you’ll find what you’re after was right there inside.

Not packed in a suitcase or stored on a shelf,
but within the family that made you yourself.