Homeless for the Holidays

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I guess I wish I had one. It's all that's missing from my life. Maybe that's why I try so hard. Too hard. It's difficult wanting something you can't buy, something completely intangible. Something you will know when you feel it, but not a moment before.

I wonder if I'll ever like the holidays again. Holidays mean home. I don't have one so I don't have the other. I like to say that New Year's is my holiday. It's about new beginnings and a new year (well, obviously). I like that. I don't usually have all that much hope as the year goes on but each moment, each year, that passes brings new possibility. Maybe this will be the moment, the year, I find it. Home. Highly unlikely, but possible.

Christmas is next week. One more Christmas I won't celebrate. That makes too many. I like to say I don't celebrate because it's not my holiday. This is true; it's not my holiday. I am non-Christian. I think I would be this way with or without a home. However, I am fairly certain, if I had a home I'd celebrate Christmas. Maybe. I would like to suppose I would. I would like to suppose that's it's not all gone, that it's not all just a memory.

Most of the year I can pretend not to care. I can ignore being homeless. One or the other. Maybe both. The holidays, though with everyone going home or coming home or talking about home, make pretending and ignoring difficult. I fall back on being a non-Christian and say more and more vehemently every year that I don't celebrate. It's not my holiday. All the while I wish it was, wish it could be. If only I had a home.

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