Home

Home is where your childhood memories are.  Memories of the people and places that used to be and now are gone forever. Memories of eating cake, surrounded by family, laughter, and the sound of clinking glasses.  Memories that are now just vague feelings: of love, safety, of celebration.


Home is where family is. The space where you picture them when you are not around.  The imperfect copy of the real thing: wall paper, furniture and curtains, a mix and match reflection of times past.


Home is the town and house where I grew up.  The kitchen where I learnt to cook by osmosis, hearing my mother and grandmother bickering till we all sat together on the little table, knees touching, sharing food and conversation.


Home is sitting for dinner with the news, catching up with the day, talking on top of each other while sharing our news. . Home is the grandfather’s clock chimes, the indelible stain from a chemistry set, and the mark on the wall from the gone rocking chair.


Home is dragons on walls, the smell of dark chocolate in a drawer, the taste of biscuits dipped in milk, the regular chiming from the grandfather’s clock.




I’ve gone to my parents’ house for a few days.  I will go back to my other home soon and then I will catch up with your journals properly.