Coming home

I agreed to move into this house before I’d even seen it. I would have agreed to live almost anywhere, I think, if it meant getting out of the soulless brick box I was attempting to call “home”. The first time I saw the house was the day I moved in. I remember panicking a little as I drove over when I realised I had no idea what I was getting myself in for. I’d agreed to live somewhere, possibly for a number of years, without having any idea what it was like. There is every chance this story could end badly. 
It didn’t, obviously. I loved this house from the moment I stepped into the hallway. Walking into the main room, with its yellow walls and pale green celling felt like coming home. It’s dumb but I belonged to this house from the very beginning. 
It belongs to a family friend. On that first day, as he was showing me around, he asked me to make this house happy again. I wonder occasionally if I would feel differently about this place if I didn’t know its story. For the first six months, when I lived here alone, there were traces of that story, remnants left in the cupboard and on shelves. After a while I boxed them away. My brother moved in and we filled the walls with our own pictures. We made this house our own. And I hope that we made it happy.
Walking around yesterday, with my brother’s camera and my lack of photography skills I was frustrated how difficult it was to portray what this place is like. I couldn’t capture the windows or the colours or the way it feels. These photos tell you a little but maybe it’s something you have to experience for yourself.
When I think about moving next year, it is the thought of leaving this house that makes me saddest. I haven’t really conceptualised how much I will miss my brother or my friends. The thought of being further away from my parents has not yet sunk in. But when I think about saying goodbye to this kitchen, to the blue walls and the oven and the hanging garlic, my chest contracts with sadness.
One of the hardest things about moving is knowing that it will probably be a long time before I live somewhere like this again. This is a grown-up house, in a nice neighbourhood. It’s hard to think about swapping it for off-white plasterboard and a non-existent garden. I’ll miss being able to bake for twelve people and dry my washing in the sun. I’ll miss Sunday morning breakfasts on the back deck, surrounded by bracken ferns. I’ll miss the feeling of unlocking the front door and stepping inside. That feeling of coming home.

I’m going to miss living here.

For the next six months Adventures in TV-Land will be running on a schedule.

Further reading

December – home

I spent the first minutes of 2018 on the beach. I’ve never actually spent New Year