"Mama, painting with you, feels, like home."

I paused, my brush bounced to the table. We were painting together when she spoke.

"What, was that?" I asked, dumbfounded.

Her shoulders rose and fell, and with assurance, she replied, "it just does, it feels like home."

It feels like home. It feels like home. It feels like home.

Four words. Simple and yet, profound. Because she's four. She's four and she articulates the feeling of home.

I am thirty three and I can't always articulate the feeling of home.

Home to me is my mom's kitchen, a place I can no longer visit. Home is the house on Sugartree, where we became a family. A place I can no longer go. Home is Oregon and Ohio and California - and countries and back roads I've yet to travel.

Home is with him. Home is our children. Home is where I hear his boots hit the floor after a long day of work. Home is in the wagging of our dog's tail, and the mess of little boys, and the smear of rainbow nail polish.

Home is what you make it, where you make it. If painting with me is home to her, I'll paint until I can paint no more.