By William F. Hill
I find it difficult to say, “I am homeless.” The word “home” means so much more to me than “house.” Often I find myself saying, “I am not homeless, but houseless.”
Home is with me always. Home is the heart. Home is memories—love, caring, sharing. Home is my upbringing, it is my grandparents, mother, father. Home is vast, outstretched years of good and bad times. It is memories in time, a vast history of my being. I am not homeless. No, I am houseless.
Houseless—a loss of a place to live, and apartment, a house, space of my own. It speaks to me of rent, walls, and rooms. A place to hang my hat. A place, a thing. A roof over one’s head, a loan, a thing to use, can be replaced with money. Houseless, yes, we all need houses. But home we’ll have to make ourselves.
Copyright Homeless Grapevine Summer 1993 Issue 2 Cleveland, Ohio.