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Home is both sorrow and joy. It’s the lick of an ice cream and death of your first dog. It is all the places I’ve been and all the places I’ve yet to go. Home is the promise of something new around the corner. | Boston, MA (USA)

In the white house on the corner with only
a wreath on the door to signal Christmas
the old man sat at his desk dreaming.
| Davidson, North Carolina (USA)

I find my home in a bar. Some may find that tragic or even pathetic. Maybe it is. But it’s home to me and it’s a hell of a lot of fun.

| Cairo, Egypt

A songwriters take on “Home.”

| Montgomery, Alabama (USA)

My first vivid memory of home is of Mama and me, lying on separate army cots in the dark, with our arms outstretched across the space between us so that we could hold hands until I fell asleep. | San Francisco, California (USA)

Home—here, now, in this hand-me-down house—is the spiraling ghost of repetition, the sigh of a downing dog, the blinds thrown on the neighbor who knocks anyway, and the creak in the floor where the kitchen tile breaks for the living room carpet, the carpet that my father nailed down 10 years ago. | Maryville, Tennessee (USA)