Where is home when it is the touch of her hand, the walks
taken in the palatial Bosnian mountains, the conversations about humanity’s
disregard for nature’s gifts? Where is home when home leaves? Where is home when everywhere you feel like a
prodigal? Where is home when home hasn’t
been demined? Where is home when there’s
no more sharp buzz to deceive the void into feeling like significance? Where is home when it's no longer family? Is home—like I’ve always wanted to believe—an
abstraction rather than a place? Can I
be at home with myself, to know that I am worth every ounce of recovery the God
I’m trying to believe in again can give me?
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