Finding Home

Where was home? It was an innocent enough question, but as I lay awake pondering, I realised it was one without an easy answer. Where was home? Was it the house with the Jacaranda tree that deposited carpets of purple atop the chilly surface of our backyard pool? Or what about the one with the chickens, hidden away in their rows of monolithic tin sheds? Maybe it was the house where if you listened closely you could hear the sea at night? No, it wasn’t any of them. So maybe it was the house tucked away behind the seas of sugarcane, or the one on – what was it – Waterlily Lane? No, not there either.

Then what about here? I’d been here long enough, surely that counted for something. I looked around the darkened room, contemplating. Dappled moonlight fell across a set of legs, splayed at odd angles to accommodate a gently breathing ball of fur. My gaze travelled up the owner of said legs, to the elbows threatening to encroach on my territory. Luckily, a gentle nudge was enough to coax them back to their side. The movement caused a disgruntled set of eyes to peer out from the ball of fur. With a gentle pat, the eyes slid closed again, seemingly content. Smiling softly, I settled back under the sheets. Maybe, I realised as I considered the sleeping figures beside me, home doesn’t need to be a house at all.