16 Things I Love About Coming Home

1. The unassumingly ‘low-key’ Australian voices at the airport when I land.

2. Melting into mum’s arms as if I’m finally allowed to melt and as if I never grew up at all.

3. The perfume of humid flowers that envelop my street and that become more glorious and abundant each year in my parent’s front yard. Flowers I still don’t know the names of. The same flowers that have seen me grow up and that dance like an un-ending Indian Summer.

4. Sitting in bed drinking cups of tea and eating chocolate biscuits and reading ‘Frankie’ with my oldest best friend.

5. Stealing dad’s socks.

6. The way my skin feels shiny and moist in the mornings.

7. Having my dad insist on doing everything with me because he misses me, although he won’t admit it.

8. Cheese and olives and Chardonnay.

9. Sleeping in my brother’s old room which is still painted maroon red from his teenage grunge years (there used to be a hand graffitied quote on his wall that said “life sux and then you die) and which echoes the licorice scent of Doc Martin boots and the dark melodies of Kurt Cobain.

10. The inappropriately loud tone of the woman next door when she calls for her dog “Basho!”

11. Fish and chips wrapped in butchers paper. With mayonnaise.

12. Family dinner parties which carry on forever and where everyone screams over one another to be heard, my dad brings out vodka shots and we all end up dancing to Prince in the living room.

13. The Sound of Music.

14. Laying on my parent’s bed in pajamas in the late afternoon as I talk dribble to my mum while she does her makeup and gets ready to go out.

15. Not setting my alarm and then waking up in a slow milky haze while I for once get the chance to try and remember my dreams.

16. The sound of both of my parent’s individual gaits as they ascend the staircase.

13. The lime green and yellow 1930s bathroom I get all to myself and that I swear someone needs to film a music video clip in one day.

14. Freshly baked European bread for breakfast.

15. Mum’s baked potato dish. And her spaghetti bolognese.

16. Walking the dogs to Carlisle street past the same graffitied back streets, ally-ways, bottle shop, the park, art spaces, thrift stores and hipster cafe’s I grew up with. While mischievous memories of first kisses, knee-high socks and Southern Comfort tickle and taunt like a tiny white butterfly I’m unable to grasp.