My Forever Home

It was around eighth grade when I had the envious realization that some people had forever homes. Some of my friends lived in the same house that they had been brought from the hospital to live in at birth. When I was in high school my father retired and we moved to a small, non-military city in northern Arizona. There, I learned that entire cities stayed in one place. I went to a high school were popularity was more or less a joke, because how popular can you really be when everyone remembers the way you ate paste and cried for your mommy during preschool. Well, everyone except me.
Four years later, when I started making adult decisions of my own, I found myself drawn to my father’s nomadic lifestyle. For the most part, it was great. Colorado, Arizona, California, Guam… My young adult life was filled with plenty of adventure and mishaps. However, there was one nagging question that haunted me: What is your permanent address?
First, my schools asked this. Then the US government joined in. It echoed in my anchor-free heart. Where do you belong, girl?
Recently, two friends of mine purchased a house. (Congrats, Holly and Charlie). These aren’t like the friends in the bay area that have slowly been acquiring property for the past ten years. These were wanderers like myself. They were seasonal workers, blowing through states and jobs data rate similar to me. Then, suddenly, they have a house and a puppy. Canning and gardening and living in their forever home is now one of their things.
And me? I find myself floating in Varna, with a husband and baby, and yet feeling more rootless than ever.
In my spare time I click through various online home advertisements. Did you know you can buy a piece of property in Bulgaria for about 4000 USD? Or a house that is livable but needs a bit of repairs for 15000 USD? Seriously. Of course, these properties are usually in villages that I have to look up on Google maps and then calculate the distance to… anything.
A few months ago I thought I wanted my forever home, and I thought I k we what that was. It was a small home, preferably a dome, that we built, in a little village. Now, I am not so sure. In a village, where would Peatuk go to school? Would Nikola really drive an hour every day, each way, to run his business in Varna.
So, it looks like we are tied to Varna for the next… 18 years? Or at least some big city.
I love our apartment right now. I love the walks our neighborhood offers. The kindergarten looks okay. I don’t have the time or desire to garden. We don’t have the money or time for horses or hawks. It’s fine. Honestly, I don’t know where else I would want to be right now.
But still, there is a little ache, begging me to find my forever home. Someplace that I can rest. A permanent address. A place where I will return when I am 80. And that same ache is telling me that Varna is not it.

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