I'm Coming Home

Over the weekend I took a trip down memory lane. Saturday morning, through the rain, my boyfriend and myself took off down the highway for what was meant to be an hour drive. We took a pit stop and it turned out to be a 3 hours trip. No traffic, so do not even know how that happened.
We were setting off to go to my Mum's house. The house she lives in now is the house I was brought home to from the hospital when I was born. A little brick house in the ghetto. Small garden big enough for a big bird avery filled with parrots and finches and all sorts of noisy bastards.
Anyway, the boyfriend had never met her before. And to be honest, I was nervous. He wasn't. I think he knew enough about her to be calmer then a fish in water. When he did meet her they got along fine. Don't even know what I was worrying about.
I hate going home to my hometown. I lived there for fifteen years and yet I still can't quite come to grips with the place. It is odd. Very far from the place I live now. I stick out...still.
We went for a little shopping expedition. Trying to dress down a little, because I know the town uniform is no shoes, a ripped pair of shorts and a non fitting singlet, I wore black full length lycra tights, a kind of army printed shirt which I tied up to show a slight bit of belly as the tights are high tops, a pair of suspenders and my black fur top boots. I curled my hair and wore my make up simple. And yet, people still looked at me like I was an alien. The men nearly passed out from excitement and the women nearly passed out with jealousy or disgust. Now, on the other hand my boyfriend walked with his head high beside me enjoying the fact everyone was ogling at his girl. I sound a little vain, but I promise this is what happened.
But the thing about being home is the memories. Even the streets reminded me of the tiniest things. When I used to walk up to the shop for potato gems or sour lollies with my friends after small town carnivals. Or what I used to see every day on the walk to school. Or when Mum and Dad spent three hours picking out the new light fixtures. And although the house has changed, much of the influence of Mum's boyfriend I feel, there are still the slight touches which have been there since I before I could walk.
Like the high detailed sketch of a naked woman my Uncle drew. Or the print of victorian dressed folk rowing a boat on the water. Or the light fixtures. It was just the little stuff which drew out the oldest, tiniest details.
And when I left, I still felt like I was leaving home. Even thought I haven't lived there for nearly 4 years and don't fit in. It is still where I call home.


Picture above: Mum's fishtank.