Home is where your heart is. That phrase has been implanted in my DNA as a child. My father had an odd picture of a farm with its accompanying farm animals that had that exact quote on it. I never gave it much thought when I passed it every morning going to and returning from school. Even after leaving that house after my dad’s stroke, I seemed to forget all about that piece of my past puzzle.

Traveling to Ohio for Thanksgiving reminded me that no matter how far I ventured and what cave I might find myself in; my home – my heart—will always be attached with my father.

Some day I will have a sit down with my psychiatrist and talk about my daddy complex, but I am with out a doubt a product from my dad.

With all of that said Ohio is not my home. It is dead. It means nothing to me. Riding around the streets of Ohio was eye awakening. It’s weird how, ten years ago, Ohio was everything to me. I saw it as the largest metropolis in the world, but after leaving and going off to Phoenix, Atlanta and now New York, that idea was far from the truth. Space as far as the eye can see.

Farm. Cow. Farm. Horses. Farm.

Thanksgiving Dinner was immaculate. Food as far as the eye could see.

Fufu. Jellof Rice. Stew. Barbecue.

All together, it was a good time because family surrounded me.

God bless Ohio because someone has to.