Welcome Home

Sometimes home is somewhere easy to point to. Canning. Rathdowne. Smith. Reid. A street lined with old terraces, red brick and weatherboard, chimneys and verandas. The place where the light catches at dusk and you know exactly where you are.

Other times, it’s someone. A boy you lean toward without thinking. Someone who makes even the most ordinary spaces shimmer with life.

Sometimes it’s feeling some way. A quiet exhale. A sense of belonging. Feeling like no matter what you do, if you try to fly and fall, that there’s something to catch you. Sometimes it’s someone.

And sometimes, if we’re lucky enough, all 3 overlap. And you find yourself standing still, looking around, and realising home’s exactly where you are.