The place I chose

For me, home is hard to explain. I’ve had so many.

It’s the smell and the taste on my tongue,

The light at a particular time of day that hits the fence just so,

And that time we made ant soup.

It is places and people and memories -

imperfect pictures and perfect moments all rolled into one –



when the days aren’t long enough

and the nights are quiet and filled with stories.

When you laugh so hard you forget what day it is

or why we even came here –

and you don’t even need to ask.

When that water’s so cold but so clear

and you can’t help but dive in –

we felt like we’d been to the dentist’s.

Our mouths were so numb from the cold and we couldn’t stop smiling

As if to show off our new teeth.

Home is that instant

when you turn a corner in the path and the sea opens up to meet the sky

and you can’t quite believe you get to see it like that.

When it happens again the next time you visit

Or it’s completely different because the weather has changed.

Home is seeing these places in all of their states

And knowing them still.

They know you too - and it's a strange recognition,

easy and uncaring.

It’s a changeable thing, home.

It morphs and wavers like steam off the lake,

Rising slowly in my chest until I notice –

I never feel I’m at home gradually, it’s a sudden almost absent-minded noticing.

But it’s there.

Every time I ache for it or feel that pang of recognition

Of a place I belong to.

I find a new one wherever I go, after a while.

Friends old -

and new

and places you’ve never been to but that feel familiar.

Light leaks and daydreams and

The boring days too –

Sometimes those turn into good days,

You never know.

It’s the green hills and the burnished fields.

It’s the bracken on the cliffside

and the heather in the salty breeze.

It’s the rush of the wind as it soars up to meet you –

Cold and harsh

But friendly too – like it’s been waiting until you arrived

To show itself.

Home is the crack of the pebbles on the beach

As the waves roll in.

It’s light dancing on water

and the call of the sea;

Here is all of my homes rolled into one

and I can’t seem to leave.

Maybe that’s what makes it a home – the pull of the familiar ,

Just a little off key

And different enough to stop me from running.

Running from? No, running to.

Running to the next adventure, the next –

Something.

It’s the feeling, the place, the people, the name…

Home.

It’s not just where you’re from or where you are -

I have more than one home

But the one I come back to is the one

I chose.