My Home


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…

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.

Zita Fogarty

Zita has always wanted to be a writer and has kept a journal since the age of 11. She left school early to become an apprentice chef before her father found out about her poor exam results. Cooking led to many adventures worth writing about, such as meeting Elton John and catering for an intimate wedding on the Hawkesbury River with no vehicle access or electricity. Now Zita is out of the kitchen and in front of the computer, doing what she was destined to do. Follow Zita on Twitter and read her blog here.

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