My hometown.

I am planning a trip to Phoenix for my son's wedding in April. In researching hotels and airfare, I find myself getting very excited as I often do when I think about Phoenix. I say I grew up there, but that is misleading. I lived there for eight years, from age 14 to age 22, so in a sense, yes I "grew up" there. Those eight years are also the longest I had lived in any city up to that point. Never mind that I moved within that city no less than once a year.

And to be honest with you and myself, most of my memories are not great. It was a hard life. A hard couple of lives, actually. It was unstable and chaotic and I saw many things a girl that age should never see.

But I did have some good times. I have good memories, too. I was married there, and for a time was happy in that marriage. We had a beautiful son. I rode on the back of a boyfriend's motorcycle, before there were helmet laws. I regularly attended concerts. I love the Arizona State Fair, our county fair here is no comparison. I wore shorts all year long and put Christmas lights on palm trees. I had my first best girlfriend. There are lots of happy times I can draw upon.

But not really enough that I should be so nostalgic and crave being there like I do. It perplexes me sometimes. I think it has my husband scratching his head as well.

It hit me today- why is Phoenix my "hometown"? Why do I miss it? Why do I wish so much to return?

(Aside from the sunshine, dry warmth, palm trees and awesome Mexican food, that is.)

This home I live in now is my first home. I have rented all my life. We never owned a home when I was growing up. Never owned a piece of land. And like I said, we moved. A lot. My husband and I spent four years in one apartment before moving into this house, and that was the longest I have lived anywhere, ever. We have been in this house over eight years, and it is definitely home.

But it isn't quite my home. Sure, I am half owner of the house as the wife of the one it was bequeathed to. I do live here and "run" this house, but it's not quite the "mine" I need it to be yet. Emphasis on 'yet'. It takes time.

This is where he grew up, it is full of his memories, the memories of his brothers. Remnants of their life here are all around me. I have not made my own home, I have settled into someone else's. Again, this will come in time. The longer I am here, the more of "them" that goes and the more of "me" that comes in, the more I will feel at home. My kids are lucky to have this home. The oldest has some memories of the old apartment, but basically this is the only home they have known, and for obvious reasons I wish it to be the only childhood home they ever do know.

Maybe I am being impatient. Or maybe I realize life is short. Maybe my longing and yearning for the desert city I call home is my misplaced need to have deep roots. And I am not oblivious to the fact that I need to plant those and nurture those here.

But....it's mine. Phoenix is where I come from, that is different and separate than everything around me. No matter what happened there or who I knew, or who I still know or don't know, no matter what feelings are conjured up when I think of it. When you say "Where I come from..." or "Back in the day...", you have a "Phoenix". When asked where I am from, I used to awkwardly try to explain that I'm not really from anywhere. We spent a few years here, then moved there, then I went to live with my dad here, then back to my mom there, then.... oh heck, I'm from Phoenix.

I'm from Phoenix. The Valley Of The Sun.