Home is waking up knowing where I am, with a sore throat because I left the window open over night. I pull my heavy limbs together and into the kitchen to scavenge for food in the drawers that are neatly organised and never empty. I wave at my Gran through the window. My sister’s handiwork, pink raspberry syrup, poured into a glass and mixed with water. Dad‘s paper is on the table and I turn it over to read the opinion pieces, so I know what to think. After breakfast I play the piano because I know Mum will like it.
There are other things I remember, about other homes.