I find it really difficult to go home, because I always leave again.
Nowhere that we’ve lived in the past five years would qualify as ‘home’ – we’re just travelling through, waiting until we can get back to where our hearts will sing, and having an adventure along the way.
We left Brisbane a decade ago for Sydney (which was almost home – except we left it!), and, since being back in Australia, oscillate between fleeting visits back home during hastily constructed long weekends (courtesy of annual leave), or two weeks at Christmas, which is the most bittersweet of all.
This weekend, I went back home for the former – a hastily constructed long weekend to see family and friends who, we knew, wanted to see us – their family and friends – in return.
Sometimes I feel as though going home is the magic solution – it will fix everything. I was happy in Brisbane – growing up, I hated the perceived ‘smallness’ of the city, but I was so comfortable and knew what made it tick. And that, I loved.
At the moment, we’re hovering with our foot in the air, poised to take the next step – but we’re not sure where that foot will fall. Maybe Brisbane. Maybe not. And in the meantime, I will just have to be happy knowing that I can package little pieces of memories past and present in my heart, after every visit.