Homes

When you’ve been on the road for a long time you eventually hit a point when home is the memory of all the places you have passed through. When you travel alone you live in a house that your mind has built for you. You are perpetually a guest in the homes and community of others. But you find that you become a host through your words, with story, as your address bears no post code, but falls between streets, towns, borders.

I think of all the houses, apartments, tents and spaces that I have lived in since I left my parent’s home six years ago. It is an odd assortment, filled with curious characters that make up my chosen family. It is thoughts of these people and these special places, some whom I have known for years, and others with whom I shared only a few weeks, that fill my head on the long bus rides and in the night. As my year comes to a gentle end and I think about coming home, I am glad. It will be good to be amongst familiar faces. But I am not sure just where that place is. If anything, it seems I miss the space between the places of my life, the movement between them, the conversations, moments that remain fluid.