To Paraphrase a Scene from Garden State:

"There's a point where your house is no longer your home. Eventually you have to create a new home with your new family. I'm homesick for a place that doesn't exist."

It's so bizarre, but this is exactly what I was explaining to someone very recently. The transition between the place you grew up being home and the place you grew up not being home is so quick that you do a double take. Last summer I didn't go home to live. And the summer before that it seemed like I was just home to visit. Just to visit the place that I lived for 13 years of my life. Most people end up getting a call from their parents that goes like this:

parent: "Hey there."
kid: "Hey."
parent: "You know how you don't really live at home anymore?"
kid: "Um....yeah?"
parent: "Well, we're turning your room into the new gym/office/champagne room."
kid: "Um...ok?"

Though my conversation with my dad went a little bit differently. He called me about a week ago and the voice message went something like this:

dad: "Hey grant. Hope you're doing well. Grandpa has advanced lung cancer and won't be alive for much longer, so I've started moving things out of your room so he can stay there since he probably won't last much longer."

Wee! I guess your room, even if your house is no longer your home, is still your room. It has your stuff in it. Your secrets. And then it doesn't one day.

So here I am, "homeless" until some day I create a new home. And oddly enough, create a new family. You never think when you're a kid that one day you'll have a "new family," but I guess that's how you could think of it. Anyway.

Countdown to surgery #2: T-minus 3 days, 11 hours, 20 minutes, 32 seconds.

Oh, and Garden State was excellent. Very much so. See it.