What makes a home sweet?

Maybe it's a sense of nostalgia, but recently I've been thinking a lot about home. And that's really unusual. Not because I'm some cynical old fart but rather because I'm not sure I really have one.

Is a home that place you grew up in? Is it a sense of protection & warmth & love? What if your parents no longer own that home you grew up in? And as your siblings grow and get married and find their paths, do they make their own homes? Or is a home simply the place you go back to each ight after after work?

I don't know the answers. I'm merely putting the questions out there.

One of my sister's asked me if I was "coming home for Christmas". Am I? I don't know. "Who's home?" I wanted to ask, but she would merely brush that off as me trying to analyse everything.

There's a song that says a home is where you hang your hat, where you lay your head. I like that. But isn't a home also supposed to be a place of love and warmth, of laughter and tears? At the moment, I'm still in limbo. I'm staying in a hotel. I move into an apartment next week, an apartment I hope to try and turn into a home. But as I sit and wonder what that is exactly, I'm left pondering a little more.