It's so strange preparing to move.
I should preface this by saying I have never moved before. Ever. I've lived in the same house my whole life. And, though as I child I kind of resented that, I'm really grateful for it now.
I'm a terribly sentimental person, and there is just something about being familiar with a place. Knowing each of it's corners and creaks. Being able to feel you're way in the dark. But to be at home means more than being familiar with a place. It's the difference between knowing about something and knowing it's meaning. Home means all the trite things about comfort and security. Those things are all true, but there is something deeper still. Home means something you can taste but not name.
Despite being sure that you're taking the right step, it's strange to think of leaving that.
To come "home" only as a guest.
To forever try to re-create that flavor.