Home?

 Where is home? Is it where you were born? Where you grew up and went to school? Where your family is? Where your kids are? Where your friends are? Where you've been for a long time?

   If it's any of the above, I'm screwed. And using that criteria, the side of a hill in central Italy doesn't apply either. Even though, it'd be really good if it could.

   I was born in southern Italy, in Naples, almost 55 years ago to Italian parents, the youngest of two children. When I was three, my parents and my 11-year-old brother and I immigrated to America, where I grew up and went through school.

   Although we were in America, I was raised in a completely Italian home (like many first-generation Americans), my parents already in their 40s by the time we got there. Maybe that's my problem. A friend of mine says if you don't grow up where you were born, where you were destined to grow up, you're forever doomed to rootlessness. 

    Anyway, that's all to explain why I'm sitting on the side of a hill in central Italy by myself at the moment, staring at a glorious view, yes, but also wondering where the hell I am. And why.

    My British husband is in London working. He's home too, now, ever since we moved back in February. This is the first time he's lived in England in more than 30 years -- the only other time a short 3-year stint in the mid-1980s when our eldest son was born in London. 

   Recently, we've been in the States for 12 years, raising our boys and working. They're both still there. But we're both home. If someone could just remind us where that is again.