A couple of years ago I posted this picture of this homeless man after I first created this blog. I am reposting it again for this week’s photo challenge. When I think of home, I think of course of my own comfortable existence in Yonkers, NY. I think of the creature comforts I enjoy: a warm bed, a comfy couch in front of a large screen tv with all the technology attached to it, a kitchen with its easy access to food. But my home wouldn’t be a home without the people within it. I think immediately of my daughter and how she is the embodiment of home to me whenever I hug her.
My thoughts then turned to those without such things: the homeless. What does home mean to them? There is no comfy couch to sit on and there’s no easy access to food when the belly is grumbling on a cold night. And despite the countless people passing you by, you’re invisible and there isn’t a single friend in sight, much less family.
I think of this man who’s only home is the streets of Paris, his constant companions being the two dogs he carries with him. Home is where you make it. Sometimes that choice is clearly easy. Other times, fate hands the concept of home in a very rough way to the unlucky few in this world. Wherever “home” is, I’ve learned to never take it for granted.