A place called home || The Hobbit

A place called home

Bilbo saw the sunset vanishing behind the horizon and took more refuge in his blankets. The end of the day had arrived, and in moments like that the hobbit was overwhelmed by the nostalgia. He used to remember; sometimes only in a thought that was too long, sometimes in several pieces of memories that took him back to the Shire. 

However, not even thinking about Hobbiton all night long would change the fact that his home was already far behind. Anyways, it never hurts to remember.

He remembered the few friends he had. Or rather, the ones he ever had. Once they became adults, each one went their own way, forming families, and Bilbo was still single at an age that for a hobbit was not really convenient, because youth escaped little by little between his fingers, and after having passed the half-century barrier he was probably doomed to a lonely future. 

He also remembered the whole neighbourhood, at least the area that he knew well in Bag End, the place where he was raised and grew up.

Bag End. Even though each patch of grass had seen him mature through the years, for some reason he never felt it as his place. Perhaps because as a child he had always preferred locations that were outside the populated area, instead of the well-known roads. Or maybe because as an adult he hardly ever left his house, and locked himself in his room reading and rereading maps among other documents. It could be said that his home was only inside his house, and not properly in his neighbourhood.

Sometimes he visited the past and remembered his parents. Bungo, who taught him the importance of valuing home, his own identity, and the bravery that lies behind everyday acts, such as never underestimate or belittle oneself. And, of course, he also remembered Belladonna, his beloved mother. For Bilbo it was complicated to think about assigning her adjectives, since there was no calificative that could describe her with utter precision. She was beautiful, elegant, with always kind hands, and although she never did feats again after being married to Bungo, an adventurous air gave off as she walked. Smart smile, sparkling eyes. She knew the art of plants and flowers, which was transmitted to her son. She also had incredible skills when it came to cooking. However, what Bilbo can stand out the most was that she always had the courage and wisdom to make the best of the worst situations. 

It was not necessary to be utopians, based in vain wishful thinking in the midst of chaos.

To be resilient and persistent was enough. And very strong. 

He remembered, with a smile, but also with nostalgia, because neither of them was at Bilbo's side now.

He felt completely alone when his father passed away and, after eight years, his mother too. He had thought that beyond his home there would be nothing, that he was helpless between imaginary and impossible to cross borders. Bag End was getting too big for him, for him alone. It was no longer worth looking for more people to include in his close circle because probably nobody could understand his thoughts and ramblings.

Only his mother had understood his Baggins side, when a little Bilbo asked for breakfast in bed. Only his father had understood his Took side, when Bilbo returned home at dusk after a little adventure in the surrounding fields, littering the ground with mud and little tree twigs.

He preferred to lose himself in the paper of the maps until he knew them by heart, and to look over and over at the family albums until he stopped feeling so empty.

He thought that he would never feel understood again. He thought, realizing that his mother's death had happened only six years ago. 

Bilbo shifted among the covers and realized that his legs were numb. He decided to get up to mitigate the numbness and to think a little more while the night was advancing.