My Home

Her home is the ocean… Image Credit: Karyn Christner Photography.

Her home is the ocean…
Image Credit: Karyn Christner Photography.

My home is the night. The quiet black. Not a sound from the neighbours on our street. The phone switched off. The clock’s tick breaking the silence. No one to talk to or listen to. That’s how I like it sometimes. I greedily fill the space around me.

My home is the morning. Bright, confident, full of promise. That first cup of tea – punctuating the start of the day. The scent of the crisp morning air as I open the window and feel the width and breadth of the day in front of me.

My home is my bath. Deep. Warm. I shut the door, light the scented candle, pour in the bubbles. My body prickles with the pleasure of it as it slides down into the welcoming wet. I see the flickering candle reflected in the bathroom mirror. For the moment nothing else exists outside these tiles walls. I think of the day stretching out in front of me waiting to be coloured in with activities…

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My home is the ocean. Tropical fish in their fancy dress darting away from this solitary swimmer. Seaweed like dark fettuccine swaying in the current beneath me. A jellyfish floating clumsily by with its bride’s train of tentacles. I give it a wide berth.

My home is the bush. The distant unmistakeable sound of a Bell Mynah bird. The midday sun struggling through the straggly gum canopy. The smell of damp leaves. The sound of quiet.