A Place To Call Home by Alora Freeman

A Place To Call Home by Alora Freeman

I used to live in the emerald-streaked highlands, in a town yet to be modernized. My family found refuge in the wild serenity. At last, we were devoid of anguish inflicted by my birth father. We felt the fragments of our hearts start to mend bit by bit. The murk in our souls faded away like a waxing crescent. What the town lacked in splendor was made up for by the godliness of its locals.

However, as marvelous as this area was, my spirit never felt utterly content. When folks asked where my family resided, I called our dwelling ‘home,’ but it never felt like home. It was the place I inhabited, but not the place my heart belonged to. The yearning to settle along the coast was embedded in my innermost being at seven years old. My family took a Thanksgiving retreat to Destin, and the shimmering azure water and the exuberant people enthralled me.

Fast forward to 18; my mother’s employment relocated from Tennessee to Florida. The spark in our home receded over a couple months, as the firewood of our family had been stripped from us. The separation was too much for all of us to bear. We were at the end of our rope, so we boarded a plane headed to Fort Lauderdale.

When I deboarded the aircraft, tears began to prick at the corners of my eyes. Not only could I be reunited with my mother, but I was finally at a place that felt like home.

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Copyright Alora Freeman 2026

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