Home is the horizon falling into familiar shapes like a jigsaw puzzle, right at the moment you find the piece you had thought long lost.

Home is the knowing the bump and curve of the road as it snakes it’s way through the city to the suburbs.  

Home is smiling at a shop front because of that one time when, or that pub where you saw so-and-so, that house that contained a person who has since moved on. 

Home is seeing the door and thinking ‘finally’. 

Home is that hug that you didn’t realise you needed until you were in it, holding on slightly too tight, too long but it’s perfect.  

Home is knowing where your feet are going to land without even thinking, two steps to the kitchen, twirl in the dining room, dodge the carpet in the lvinging room, creak up the stairs.  

Home is the sound of paws clacking across wooden floors.

Home is a film, a footstool, a fire switched on against the winter chill.  

Home is giggling over a joke that really wasn’t that funny but you have to laugh anyway.  

Home is everybody in, everybody out, bolt the door quick before someone else comes through.  

Home is the sight of a bookshelf with a space in it to be filled, completed by purchases from a place far away. 

Home is a warm blackcurrant juice, in a mug that’s only yours.  

Home is a bag hitting the floor and a sigh of ‘finally.’ 

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