Home
I’m not going home. Not really.
Harry Potter as he leaves for Little Whinging at the end of his first year at Hogwarts – J.K Rowling
Home is not a single place, not only the place you lay your head. It’s everywhere your heart has invested itself. It’s where you can be who you are around people who know you and love you for it.
Home was Tamborine Mountain where I grew basil as tall as myself, walked home at night from theatre rehearsals and hung out with Rose.
Home was watching drive-in movies on deck chairs. It was in the pews of Logan Uniting and getting headbutts from Anakin at James & Mel’s house.
Home was dancing in a rainstorm at Brisbane Square with Ed, who was the only guy mad enough to enjoy it with me. It was singing aye-aye-aye and wearing short, little $20 dresses. It was getting through a bottle of red wine with Kerri and watching chick flicks in pyjamas after a big Saturday night out.
I’m feeling a wakeup call to invest myself in the people around me. Home seems anywhere but where I am. Yet, when I look closer, that’s not really true.
Perhaps home is drinking a strong bowl of coffee while greeting local residents and merchants. It’s rolling my eyes because my pommy boss is singing Spice Girls. It’s the signs of changing seasons. It’s familiar faces trying a new beer at Olinda Cellars.
It’s time to come home.
Muchness 