I used to think home was a place.
A postcode or a knocker on the front door.
A particular mug in a particular cupboard.
These days I am less certain.
Home has become conversations that last too long.
Train journeys with people I love.
Songs everyone knows by heart.
The smell of rain on unfamiliar streets.
A son learning the piano just because he knew one song meant everything to his mum.
Sometimes we travel hundreds of miles only to discover that home packed itself into our suitcase before we left.
Maybe the way home is not a road at all.
I think it is those voices you long to hear when you wake up after a restless night sleep.
