Home is where the heart is.
That’s what they say, isn’t it?
Well, I guess my heart is a bit fickle then, as it resides in many places; split into pieces and scattered across the country.
There’s my own home, with my cat, and my living-room and my overgrown ‘lawn’, that welcomes me every time I return from being away. And that, despite a difficult start, has become one of my favourite places to be.
There’s ‘Home Home’ – my parents house, with its now empty rooms but that have housed my family for years and whose long steep driveway is a welcome sight each time I return.
There’s the first home I lived in, up the hill. ‘The Terrace’ – a beautiful Georgian red brick terrace whose 8 houses were a mini village in themselves and number 4 is where part of my heart still lives.
There’s ‘The Cousin’s’, where memories of hotdog eating in the kitchen and (to our parent’s minds) “unplanned” sleep-overs occurred on a regular basis.
There’s the cottage my Nanna and Poppa had, with the caravan site and the converted attic, where my sister and I would drink highly sweetened cocoa just before bed.
There’s the secret homes of my heart – the places it should no longer long for, but it does. The city centre apartment that was the venue for so many of it’s scars and hurts, but yet occasionally it visits and takes my mind along with it. This is a place I wish it could leave, but know there’s a possibility a small piece may have set down roots for life.
And then there’s Woolsington. The place my heart will never leave. The place where I learned that family is the most important thing of all. Where playing games and climbing trees and learning manners and eating everything on your plate and Christmas and talent shows and teatime with singing chairs all live. And even though that home is long sold off and falling into disrepair in reality, in my heart it’s still full and perfect and ours.
Created: Aug 13, 2012TessaS Image Media