Suddenly I’m homesick for a place that was never really home. Somehow a place that was never meant for me to live in, where my shoes should always stay on, where I can’t peek behind any closed doors — somehow those places hold more wonder and interest than any place my heart calls home.

It’s funny that way. Even when we have everything we want, we unearth an unexpected discovery. A hair tie, or similar memento — or a set of photos once lost in a place you forgot about. That little reminder makes you wonder. It makes you open the door to your cozy little home, wander into the street, and walk, bare feet against the pavement. You’re searching for that house — the one you saw once upon a time. Your time in it was brief — a quick tour, like the ones reluctantly given by exasperated homeowners to unknown guests. But you liked it. You ran your fingertips along its hallways, pictured yourself sitting warm by the fireplace, yearned to take your shoes off and curl your toes against the carpet.

You’re no longer welcome inside. So you just look at this place from outside. You run your fingertips against the outside walls now, you peek in the windows, and bend down to run your hands over the lawn. All to capture that original feeling inside that beautiful home — not your home, no. But someone’s. A place you could have called home, if only you’d had the chance.

I wandered down to look at that house tonight. Cocked my head to the side to look at it from a new angle. And I saw the gutters needed cleaning. The paint was chipped on the door, and the windows were dirty. The house was still beautiful. But the house was not perfect. The house was not my home. Perhaps it could have been. I might have been happy in that home.

But I chose a different home, or maybe it chose me. Eventually, we have to leave this other house, this one that was once so lovely and inviting, and we have to turn home.

And your home always looks different when you get back. Warmer. Cozier. But you know this place. You know about the floors that tilt just a bit in the kitchen, how the upstairs toilet sometimes runs, and how to open that tricky bedroom window. Every flaw, every crack, and every trick to this house — you know it. It’s yours.

It’s mine. Will it be my home forever? Maybe. Maybe not. There are plenty of pretty houses on the block. But I’ll stay here. Because I am happy here.

And occasionally, I’ll pass a house or two that’s a bit familiar. I’ve walked its halls once or twice. Lived in another for a year or two. My gaze will linger on those houses just a little bit longer, my mind will wander to what might have been. I’ll wonder who’s there now. How’s the upkeep? Is it still neat and tidy, or has it become cluttered, dirty? What’s different? Is it the same at all? I wonder…

Because sometimes the wonder is the only appeal.