casuarina trees and freshly baked bread

In my mind, I see a brick house on the side of a hill, green encompassing it like a watercolour painting of perfection.

I can hear the creaking of the trampoline springs, the Battlefront soundtrack floating out of the PlayStation, through the rumpus room window downstairs.

The smell of casuarina trees and freshly baked bread still feels like nostalgia and safety to me.

Will homemade ginger-nuts and chocolate cake ever taste the same now that I am older and the world is never quite as beautiful as it once was?

I can hold the photos in my hands, run my fingertips over the shape of my old smile, but home and childhood is as evasive now as a breath of air at the bottom of the ocean.