My Heart-Home Address Is -

It’s rare to have your childhood perfectly preserved. Sitting on the table of your life. A snow globe that’s never been shaken. A paperweight full of colours.

But mine is.

At least I hope it is.

My childhood lives on another continent. Literally.

And I’m going back again. For the first time in eighteen years. Eighteen years.

I’ve lived a whole lifetime in the space in between. I’ve been built up and broken. Then broken and built up again.

I hope it still recognises me.

Because I don’t.

I recently heard how the sun looks bruised in the morning. Like it had a fight in the night, but managed to crawl its way into the new day. Barely survived. I can’t help but think how I’m going to back to my childhood. To the land of the rising sun. As a bruised one.

Because I’m going back for healing.

A therapist recently told me how you can grieve a country. And wow, did that hit home. If you pardon the pun.

The country that holds my first steps, my first words, my first crush, my first dreams, my first wins - has been just out of my reach for so long.

Yes, I have photos that I can look at whenever.

But it’s not the same.

I want to breathe the air that I grew up in. Because I swear it was sweeter.

I want to hear the sounds I grew up in. Because I swear they were softer.

I want to taste the flavours I grew up in. Because I swear they were richer.

I want to see the sights I grew up in. Because I swear they were brighter.

I want to feel the spaces I grew up in. Because I swear they were warmer.

It’s like a treasure chest of memories. That have sat in the loft. Gathering dust. All this time. And I am about to open them up. Experience them for the second first time.

I hope they aged well.

I’m sure there’ll be something I’ve forgotten. A cringe-worthy memory that I’ll shove right back to the bottom of the box. Or a scarred, torn page. That I hid from myself.

It’s a rare gift to revisit your childhood.

I know I don’t have one home that I can look at and say, that was MY CHILDHOOD. But I have a country.

A people.

Every step I took in childhood has their red and white threaded through.

When I’m asked for my home address, it’s never the truth. Yes, that’s where my body currently sleeps. But my heart isn’t there. It never left where it found home. I can’t wait to go heart-home again. Breathe in that place of safety.

I hope it still holds me the same.

They say that grown-ups act like the children they were when they visit home. Stay over with their parents. I hope it’s like that for me. When I go home. Leave my bags by the door. Throw myself onto the sofa. And become that child again.

I hope so.

I left there as a whole being. A child ready for her next adventure.

They dropped me off at the airport. Memories in hand. Double-checked I had everything I needed. Walked with me until security. They kept watching until I was a dot in the distance. Then, they sent me on my way.

But I’m going back now as a bag of bones.

Weary and tired.

My memories have frayed. I’ve lost half of what I needed. The map they gave me is torn, and I’m missing the next stop. I got through security a long time ago, and I don’t know how to get back.

I hope they can help me. Find my missing luggage.

I hope they can help me. Try to be whole again.

I hope they can help me. Want to keep going.

I hope they can help me.

To look in the mirror and say, 'Ah, there she is.'

Because ‘Dear God, – I miss her.’