Coming Home

There's nothing quite like coming home. Everything's the same and somehow different.

Pulling into the driveway to the crunchy sound of gravel beneath the tyres and opening the door to the familiar joyful chorus of 'they're home!'

Coming in to the spicy warm smell of fresh hot cross buns and coffee.

The old piano whose softly tuneless keys are coaxed back into life.

Thinking our robins have made a nest in the outhouse - bright black eyes and a flutter of movement, puffed-up Robin and his soft brown missus.

Rooting out a recipe book almost entirely dedicated to rum, puddings, and rum in puddings. HELLO.

Almost tripping over the cats who choose to sleep anywhere you might need to actually be walking.

And you. All of these things being second, because first my eyes are eagerly seeking the faces dearest to me, to meet the hands reaching out and the arms that wrap and fold tightly around me. Because there are glowing cheeks to be kissed and people to be held.

A little bit older, a little different perhaps, but essentially the same. You are the reason I always come back, starving, wanting and needing more. Couldn't possibly grow out of my need for you.

We make memories, and each one fits snugly into a heart that already overflows. Each snapshot in my mind oversaturated, the colours brighter and more intense because

I'm home.