When I was growing up in Canada, I kept thinking of the Middle East. I remembered the long football games, the daily dinners out, the friends, the cricket games, the life I used to live. I wasn’t home sick, I just dreamed of the place like it was a lost eden- a place to go back to and live in again.

Then I got here. And then, I was homesick for Canada. A real sickening kind of homesick. I remembered the cold nights, the sessions with friends, the hanging around, the Mariokart games, the walks in the forests, the backyards, the boys and the girls, the mom and pop shops, the lifestyle, the love, the good times had and planned.

Then I went back in October- just to visit. And something didn’t sit right. It didn’t feel the same. I had no illusions when I did go back. I knew most of my friends would not be there, I knew their houses had been moved into by others a long time ago, I knew times chance.

But something else had changed too. Me. I had changed. My mindset had changed. I had moved on. Suddenly, the long walks seemed arduous. The bus rides peasantry. The homely lifestyles too backward. The cookie cutter homes too neat and clean. The paved streets far too empty. It just wasn’t me anymore.

My brother is having trouble settling in there and now that I have had time to reflect on it, I think I get it. Sometimes, you dream of a place and know that you love it, but when you go back, you realize that it no longer represents you.

Mind you, this place where I live now does not represent me either. Not yet anyway. But it is home. I may not like it everyday, but this is home. Home is not where the heart is, that is a lie. Its where the heart feels most comfortable- and that, is a shifting bed of sand.