If home is where the heart is, then my home is you.  It’s as true as it is sappy and cliché.  Even my parents’ house, the blue one on Clover Street, that used to be tan with dark red shutters, with the beech tree out back I still sometimes climb into to sit and read, the antlers on the shed now broken off, the one that held my childhood, feels more like home with you in it.  Even the car ride to take you back to your house, singing the whole hour-and-a-half, feels like home until you open the front passenger door and wave goodbye, holding my heart at home, with you.

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