We editors at The Dakota Student were discussing the idea of “home” last production as the night grew late.

All of us, being in our late teens and early twenties, realized we’re in a strange time in our lives where it’s not easy to place a finger on our respective “homes.”

One of us, a native of the Twin Cities suburbs, has lived in Grand Forks for more than two years but wouldn’t necessarily call it home. To him, his parents’ house still feels more like home than the string of dorms and apartments he’s lived in on campus.

Another editor was born in Great Britain, where he lived until he was six. The rest of his life was spent in Minnesota before enrolling at UND, where he’s studied for almost three years. For him, the mother country still feels like home — though he actually doesn’t like going back all that much.

I myself grew up in Grand Forks, so this town still feels pretty homey.

But as for a “home,” I agree with another editor here in saying that I guess I really have no home at this point in my life.

My parents’ house lies between the Alerus Center and Altru hospital. UND’s campus, on the other side of the train tracks, exists in its own world, which I find interesting because both from the front lawn of my fraternity house and the backyard of my parents’ house, I can see the roof of the Chester Fritz Auditorium — an obelisk teetering on the edge of my two G-Funk worlds.

I wouldn’t call my fraternity house a “home” — at least not just yet. It’s still just a place to live. I’ll probably never really get that homey feeling with my fraternity house, since I’ll probably be out of town this summer.

And my parents’ house has completely changed since I’ve been a permanent resident. After high school, I lived in Los Angeles for my freshman year of college, only returning three times for Thanksgiving, winter break, and spring break — all three of which were filled with snow when I returned.

Last summer, I lived at “home,” but it went by quickly and already feels like a lifetime ago. Without my dog Duffy, who we had to put down before I left for California, barking out the windows and begging for scraps under the table, my parents’ house just can’t feel like home anymore.

From now on(and hopefully forever), my parents’ house will be just that — my parents’ house; the place I grew up; the place where I occasionally go to do laundry for free.

It might be weird to say I don’t have a home, but just think about all the potential that exists in that fact.

I’m sure I’ll have another real “home” at some point. Now, I look out my window overlooking 6th Ave. and wonder where it will be and whom with.

I have no reservations, no expectations; I have no requirements or worries. I can only hope that wherever I end up and whomever I end up sharing my home with, they make mac n’ cheese as well as my mom did when I was eleven. If so, I know I’ll be home.