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05/22/2015 10:12 p.m.

Sometimes we are kicked out of a place, a place that we believed to be home. It can arrive as quite a shock when it happens. And then we drift for awhile – sometimes a long while, sometimes a short while.

I've been drifting since October of 2013. I thought I'd found my home, but it was not to be. Before that, I'd been drifting for a much longer period of time, borrowing that sense of belonging wherever/whenever I was invited to do so.

Sometimes I'm still quite sad about losing that home. I catch glimpses of it every now and then, and when I do, sometimes I even see what used to be mine in those glimpses – a lamp that I bought, or pots and utensils that I once used to make our meals. His body with her arms around it.

I've always been a bit of a vagrant, in the kindest sense. (I don't use the word “gypsy” because I've discovered it isn't politically correct.) A wanderer, with little to show of longevity in my life.

I still hope that some day, and may that day be sooner than later at this stage of my life, I might find home again.