Home Is Where

Home is Where Home is where your first and lost loves linger the scent of Cusson’s Imperial Leather and lavender, like a silken scarf curls and twines around your head,  her marshmallow touch, teasing your memory. Home is where fresh baked bread and apple pie,  jams and jellies, all cooling in the afternoon’s mellow light, greet you coming there when school is out and saffron yellow butter melts on a fresh cut welcome scone Home is where  dreams are born waking in the morning sun, fresh and frisky, brimming with light and hope, unfettered by failure, treachery or disappointment, ripe and blooming with possibility. Home is where memories fragment, like packing boxes, broken, confused,  their contents lost while you search for a thought, a hook to hang a hat. Home is where, past follies, misdemeanours  and careless adventures echo down the streets and lanes, tip tap in your footsteps, flit through the shadows, in the corners, out of sight, in your mind’s eye. Home is where brooding menace waits, the bogeymen of childhood terror, with menacing patience until childhood play abates, there, in the shadow under the bed and behind the wardrobe door, slightly ajar. Home is where  the slap of tiny feet on a kitchen floor, telling you home is where you’re happy, but there’s no notch on your compass to point you there.