Friday, December 18, 2015

Home in Winter

Image Credit: Marica
I'm going home for Christmas. It's been 8 months since I left and I haven't been back since, so I'm pretty excited. Thinking about this fact the other day led me to imagine my home, and its particular feelings, sounds and smells. I love my house in winter, since we always have a fire going and every morning, I roll out of bed into my dressing gown and head downstairs for a warm breakfast, in full holiday swing. Coupled with the excitement of giving and receiving presents and the general festive cheer that surrounds December, it's by far my favourite time of the year.

But I've also made a new home for myself here in London. It's quite amazing how fast we can adapt to new spaces - it doesn't take long before the place we're inhabiting becomes our cradle, our museum of memories, our sanctuary after a long day. I think we continue to make little homes for ourselves throughout our lives. Here is a poem I wrote about all this - enjoy!

Home in Winter

Home in winter is the morning smell
of burnt toast and coffee, 
wafting through the house as I skitter
down the stairs in slippers.
It's the blaze of a glowing fireplace
as I'm sat, book in lap.
It's the refuge of a house whose walls
have known me forever.
Now, returning there, like an old friend
home welcomes me back in.

Houses seem strange, unfamiliar shells
when glanced in from outside.
A new home begins bare and basic
like brand new, unworn shoes.
With time, the space becomes one's own,
offering up its shelves
to belongings, memory, meaning.

This new place of mine, once a perfect stranger,
has grown to smell like coffee, warm like fire.
Taking my hand, welcoming me in,
much like my old friend
my first home.

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