Home

I've disregarded the idea of a physical home in the last year. It's a notion. One not too dissimilar to love.

I have swayed back and forth between fighting the restlessness my bones absorb and keeping my roots intact. 

It's risky business.

I don't own much. Sure, I have things, have been gifted a lot. Lent this and borrowed that. But little is mine.

This sits well.

I have many notebooks to my name and years. Some bought purely for their pretty covers, ribbon bookmarks and soft leather feel. 

One, I keep close.

I am never far from.

Not tattered how most adored possessions become. It's pristine; almost brand new.

Handed to me a little after the clouds rolled in. And that's the risk. You can't always predict a storm.

I'll write about the storm one day. That's what I do. I open my stories to close them again. To nod a familiar "Hello" and wave a final "Goodbye".

I will write, in detail, with love and sorrow, of the hurricanes that have grasped me. I'll explain that it was hard, but that I wouldn't undo it. I will remind myself that I would never redo, reword, rethink - not for a second.

Too much light has come from my darkness. 

A physical home. The same front door, fridge, worn in carpet, body dented bed will never be my home.

I've taken refuge in my head. In other's front doors and worn in carpets. My home is the warming smell of a different linen powder, a fridge with eggs on the top shelf instead of the bottom.

To allow myself the sentiment of anything more would be to destroy all that I do not already own.

I'll write it all eventually. But not tonight.

Tonight, I will listen to soft jazz with a glass of wine. I will count the hours until I start work. I'll draw a few faces, scribble a few thoughts.

Tonight I will talk of how I came to this home through another's choice. I'll talk of how the furniture belongs to the bricks and that I am in debt to the walls. The walls that stood strong through my hurricane.

I let go of the idea of home. And here I am, home. Waking early most days.

This isn't what I dream of, but my, it's good.

Odd and disjointed, but so very comforting.

❊