think of home for me, will you? hear the kettle boiling in the background, lone wolf howling in the night; the crockery clattering like crickets chirping; the steaming mug of coffee turning whiter still with every drop of milk.
remember the beige carpets, the perilous stairs, the strange creaking under floorboards: my parents’ house. or nobody’s house. a piece of rented haven.
but it was home. and d’you remember the first time we made out on the sofa in the living room downstairs? the day after i turned single and we couldn’t wait much longer? the irony of that day was not lost on me. how could it be? the impact on the window smashing is not forgotten by the frame: the memory is always there – gentle pulpitations in the soft grooves of the wood.
you see, beginnings shape the world.
quietly, carefully, they smooth the edges, polish outer surfaces, let us glean a little of the inside. they are a little mirror straight into the lover’s heart, a sphere held between the middle finger and the thumb, a kite.
it’s the beginning that lets me know where home is: with my hands on your neck; with your head on my lap.