Home is not a place.

It is the mug you carried from house to house, the inside tannin-dark, the outside bright with paint. Your brother gave it to you when you were 18, and every morning since then you made tea in it, half-awake, wondering how you would get through another day. And, every day that you got through, you returned to that same mug, and as you poured another cup of tea you felt the tension release a little from your shoulders.

Home is not a place.

It is the smell of lavender, the sudden waft carrying you backwards in time. Your grandmother’s garden, the front door flanked by fragrant purple bushes. Every summer you would pause and watch the bees, and your lungs would fill with perfume. You will be young forever here, watching the lavender.

Home is not a place.

It is the taste of gravy, mixed up from a stock cube and marmite, with a bit of cornflour to thicken. As a kid you would drink it by the jugful, the salty umami flavours mingling on your tongue. One sip now and your mouth floods with the taste of a hundred family dinners; laughter, chicken, crossword puzzles.

Home is not a place.

It is a body more familiar than your own, an arm just the right length to slide around your waist and a  warm hand that rests in the little dent above your hip. It’s the way his beard rubs against you when nuzzle into his face, and the way his eyes catch the light just so and your breath catches in your throat.