My Home is Not My Home

I have lived on the south-east coast of England for my whole life – eighteen years spent living somewhere that I cannot seem to call my home. 

One of my uncles was born in England, too. He, my dad, and their other six siblings lived in a town called Oswestry and eventually moved to where I live now, on the coast. My uncle, though, was lucky enough to not have to stay.
At around the age of twenty-five, he moved to California after meeting a girl who is now his wife, and that’s where he’s lived ever since…twenty-five more years later. 

My family and I have visited him in Burbank, LA on many occasions, so throughout my life I have been lucky enough to fly out to California every few years, but every time we get in the rental car to drive back to LAX airport, I am overwhelmed with sadness at the realisation that I am returning ‘home’ to a place that is not my home. 

I couldn’t explain why England does not feel like my home because I simply do not know the reasons, but what I do know, is that when I step off the plane in California, there is nothing that could take the smile off my face. 
  An indescribable feeling washes over me, and it’s as though everything falls into place. 

I would leave England behind in a heartbeat if it meant I could return home. 


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