When I sat down to think about my home place, I hesitated.

What exactly is home?

Is it the first apartment?

The house where your children grew up?

For me, home has had many addresses — and every single one of them felt real at the time.

Growing up in The Bronx was loud, lively, and full of character. We could walk to many interesting places, or take drives to see the world. Actually, the world was pretty small in those days, so we never really went far.

Then my parents moved us to Yonkers, just about ten miles away — though it felt like a world apart. We had a house. I had my own room. That little bedroom made me feel grown-up and grounded all at once.

That was home.

When I married, I didn’t move far — just into an apartment close to where I lived in Yonkers. We stayed there for 24 years. Twenty-four years is long enough for walls to hold laughter, arguments, birthday candles, and Christmas mornings. That apartment wasn’t just a place. It was a chapter. I also knew that living there with the husband had to end. 

After my divorce, I did something bold.

I moved to Norco, California — as far as I could go without crossing an ocean. A small horse town, full of dirt roads, flies, and yes… cowboys in Wranglers. It was slow but it was exactly where a newly single woman needed to land.

And just like that — it became home.

A few months later, I met Dale. I moved to Corona, married again, and believed that house would be my last stop before a nursing home someday.

Life, as we all know, has its own plans.

Twelve years later, Dale passed away unexpectedly. My heart was shattered. I stayed in that house five more years, trying to decide whether the walls still felt like shelter or simply memories.

Eventually, I knew it was time.

I sold the house and briefly moved in with a girlfriend. Let’s just say… not all homes are meant to be shared.

My daughter, son-in-law, and grandkids were living in Mesa. One day I called, and my four-year-old grandson answered the phone.

“Hi Grandma.”

That tiny voice melted me right down to my bones.

Before I knew it, I was packing up again — heading to Arizona. The desert skies, the wide-open roads, the majestic Superstition Mountains glowing red at sunset — they wrapped around me in a way that felt peaceful and strong.

Another home.

Fast forward a few more turns of the calendar, and I met Ken.

We’ve been living together for about three years now — happily, comfortably, without the need for marriage papers. We take day trips. We cruise. We fly to see relatives. We explore the great state of Arizona like curious teenagers with senior discounts.

Everything is hunky-dorey.

And yet, we both know something important.

We are in our golden years.

This probably won’t be the last place I live. Life has already taught me that permanence is an illusion. Homes change. Circumstances change. We change.

But right now?

This house is my home place.

It’s where we laugh.

It’s where we plan our next cruise.

It’s where I write.

It’s where we love.

Home, I’ve learned, isn’t the structure.

It’s the season.

It’s the people.

It’s the feeling when you walk through the door and exhale.

And for as long as we possibly can,

this is where we will play and love.

Eydie 💛