“Going home” used to be a clear destination: the house on Kintyre with my baby blue and lime green room.
The sunny dining room in the evening, Sirius Sattelite Radio playing Bruce on repeat. Yellow lab with her nose pressed up against the sliding screen door. BBQ salmon and undercooked rice, the smell of chlorine wafting from the hot tub on the deck, and a tall bottle of pinot gris for my taking.
These days, it’s not quite so clear cut but, man, is it true what they say about home and the heart.
Now, home might be dad’s pullout couch with the harbour view, a huge TV playing the next best thing, IPA in hand. Or it’s Blue Rodeo at sunset in mom’s sleepy seaside town, cooking in her vintage kitchen with market finds. Other times still, its the duplex I’ve been having sleepovers at for years, rolling over to see Colby’s plotting grin as he decides to ask his mom time and time again for…”Pancakes?”
More often than not, we’re blessed with piles of fluffy masterpieces.
Most days, of course, it’s coming “home” after a long day of work, sweaty from the gym, to my little shared apartment and relishing in the day’s routine. Heating up my creation from the night before, putting on some soft lighting, and getting comfy with a book or a show.
And for the first time in a while, my little rented home feels like more than an in-between phase. Of course, it is in-between something–every phase is in-between another. And sure, I will probably change apartments next year, may move cities in a few years, might change my mind and decide to go off the grid suddenly.
But right now, this city, this time, this space feels like somewhere I’m excited to get comfortable in for a while. There’s a little extra sense of…contentment?
A little extra sense of heart, a little extra sense of home.