I come home to my parent’s home, first home, actual home etc about twice every month since I’ve moved out. Each time is fairly different, somewhat the same. Tonight my old man is extremely happy that he got to finish of his birthday whiskey bottle in the presence of his full family. Watching catch up TV with my mom and receiving her comments of disgust that I haven’t listened to any music by her latest picks, which at the minute include Bastille, Kodaline and Imagine Dragons is become somewhat of a ‘thing’ whenever I come back.
I like seeing the changes, the new ornaments in the garden, how tall my little brother has gotten and what music he chooses to follow. I like coming home and listening to stories about events I’ve missed or funny things I should know. Tonight I could be out with friends, I could also be at an engagement party for a woman who was quite a regular person in my childhood, but to be honest, for tonight, I’m pretty glad to be home.
I enjoy the things that stay the same; the adoring look in the dogs eyes that I’ve returned home, Dad moaning that we’re all disturbing him trying to watch a film, the loudness in the living room. What I love most is the still moment of my bedroom that is pretty much stuck in time. It is exactly the same as the day I left it, too bare perhaps but my bedroom all the same. My biggest dreamcatcher on the wall, piles of books that have burst my wardrobe door from its hinges and the porcelain dolls that remind me of my Granddad.
A house may just be walls, windows and doors, but this is a home, a place where nothing is more important than everyone being together as a family and being okay. Of course there are expectations, rules and arguments but in the end, here I am sat in my bed in my own bedroom and it is a beautiful thing just to feel this content.