Home is where my memories are.
Most of them are here. The rest are scattered over there.
My home seems to be, and steadily so, settled well into my past.
Yet what happens to my home there when my memories fade? When all goes dark and what I once knew well is all but eclipsed?
Maybe then, my real home is not where my memories sit. Maybe home for me, my permanent home, awaits me still.
Home then may be where I’ve always been known, where someone else’s memories of me lie.
Home then, after all, will be where everlasting memories are.
Home then is there where all memories rest.