Home means different things to different people. For me, home means many things. Home is the regular ol' view of the Rocky Mountains from the driveway, a view other people find incredible. Home is the smell of my mom's rib recipe cooking in the kitchen. Home is remembering to pull the front door closed, because it doesn't swing all the way shut on its own.

But those aren't the only things that feel like home to me. Watching American Dad with my best friend, in a college dorm all the way across the country - that feels a little like home. The sound of my college teammates shouting over each other from the couches of our locker room; that's home too. Home is remembering the door handle to the mail room turns upward, not down, to wait an hour before picking up packages

And in a few months, I might not be anywhere near these places and things that feel like home. I grew up in one home, and in the past few years I have found another one. But soon, I'm going to have to find a new home. I'm going to be living and working somewhere else. The places and people that my lives - my two different lives - revolve around won't be home for me anymore. Sure, I can always go back to my parents' house, and I can always go back to my alma mater someday, but it's not the same.

These places have already changed, both of them. My childhood bedroom is an office. My first dorm room belongs to someone else now. I've already forgotten the details of the wallpaper of the room I grew up in, what it sounded like when someone banged on my window at night to be let in the basement door. These places were home once, but now they're not. There are so many tiny details that make up the places we call home. But eventually, we leave them, and we forget them.

I can't help but wonder what my next home is going to be like, and whether I'll love it as much as I've loved the places I called home before it.