Home home home

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the meaning of home, and the comforts that term seems to bring to most people. Yesterday I began to read a book called "The Namesake" at Thornlea during my lunch break. I didn't finish it, nor did I bring it home because I had a test to study for, and I can't wait to get back to it next week and finish the story of Gogol, and young Indian-American learning to live his life with a sense of duality. Where is is home, in Cambridge or Calcutta? What is his good name, as opposed to his pet name? It's so interesting.
Yesterday, consequently, I fell as I raced down the hill to Willowbrook in order to catch the 10-minutes-early bus home. I slid in mud that had been frozen solid 7 hours before, and fell on my butt. It hurt, a lot, and as I fought tears of frustration as I limped down the rest of the hill and down another to head the bus, who's driver had seen me fall and driven away in spite of it, off at a different stop on Royal Orchard, all I wanted was to be at home. All the way to Clark and New Westminster, all the way down Clark to Tansley, and all the way down Tansley to home all I wanted, with my entire being, was to go home.
So what does home mean? I'm willingly leaving home this summer to go live 3 provinces away, thousands of kilometres from my superior bed, my gorgeous cat, and all my friends, so that I can make enough money to pay for my final year of schooling. I love my home, but I'm leaving it. Are the ties that bind so very strong, or can they be stretched for a time without becoming uncomfortably drawn?
We'll see. We'll see.

-Laur