Somebody told me . . .

I don't know how to explain "home." Home's not a place, rather a state of being, an existence beyond goodness.

It's the toy Tonka trunk in the tub you stub your toe on every morning in the shower and the noodle stuck on the wall behind the chair. It's okay, no one ever really sits in that chair, there's hardly ever three for Wednesday's spaghetti and meatballs. It's the shiny, silver remote you can never seem to find, the cozy bed that never seems to get made. It's the dirty laundry crawling up the wall and the mysterious odor coming from the back of the fridge. It's the hand prints (mid-thigh level) on the glass back doors where little fingers itched to get at the red three-wheeler in the shed while rain poured down. It's the second or third or fourth-hand couch with the gaudy floral pattern you sink into each night after you emerge victorious from the two-hour battle for bedtime. It's home, and you know it.

Wish the rest of the world luck on their search for fame and fortune.

<br>.

When you look in the mirror, unrecognizable, a hollow shell of the man you thought you'd be, may St. Anthony hear your prayers. And when you strike-out across the horizon in search of all the pieces of your soul you've lost, may St. Christopher keep you safe.