Home

To most people home refers to the place where they grew up, or at least where their parents currently live.

But not in my case.

My parents sold my childhood home years ago, and my mother and father are divorced and live in small apartments in different states.

We’re a family of gypsies, essentially. Never staying in one place for long, I grew up all over the country. But home is where the heart is, and my heart remains in my grandmother’s house, even though I was technically just a "visitor" there. Both of my parents were born in New York, and my grandmother has been there her whole life. She lives in a small town in Eastern Long Island, her home, and what I consider mine as well.

Because my parents are divorced our family has no home base anymore. My relatives live in various states throughout the country. But ever since I was born I’ve been coming to visit my grammy in Long Island.

I learned to swim in the ocean by her house; I learned to read at the local library; I learned to drive on the streets of New York, and the happiest memories of my life come from long days spent on the picturesque beaches on Long Island.

The best friends I’ve ever had are here, and I fit right in with the straightforward locals who make New York such a distinctive place.

The house my grandmother lives in has been in our family for decades. My grandfather, who unfortunately died before I got to know him, built most of the house himself.

My bedroom has changed little over the years, and when I visit I sleep on the same twin four poster bed I’ve been sleeping in since I was tiny. From my window I can see the backyard where I had countless treasure hunts with my friend’s, and down the street is the bay where I used to swim and collect shells on the shore.

When I come and stay with my grandmother, my days and nights are filled with the sand and ocean, eating my fill of New York pizza and bagels, moments with my best friends drinking and dancing until dawn, and countless other experiences I could never find anywhere else. It never gets better than the time I spend on Long Island.

My family’s history greets me everywhere I turn.

One nightclub I go to is built on the site where my grandmother’s uncle used to own an Inn. My uncle used to clean the bathrooms at another infamous local bar. My aunt used to work at the snack-bar at the town beach, and I split my head open at a tender young age on the steps of the town library.

Memories surround me everywhere I turn. For most people this is probably a common phenomenon in their hometowns, but for a gypsy like me, it is a precious thing.

Most people take their homes for granted. Their parent’s house will probably be theirs someday, and their memories will always be preserved. Not me, though. When my grandmother dies she’s given orders for the house to be sold. Along with the house will go the only real home I’ve ever known.

So, I appreciate every moment I spend here… every childhood flashback and happy memory is something to be savored.

And I know, no matter what happens, I’ll always consider myself a New Yorker, and my home and my heart will always remain in my grammy’s old house in Hampton Bays.

[Credit for the image is given, with thanks, to www.elegantstitch.com]

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