I'm sat in the front room of the home I knew for the first 18 years of my life. There are differences from when I first lived here. The endless stacks of magazines have now been sorted through, leaving a distinct feeling of space in the otherwise cluttered room. As the sun streams through the window, filtering through the heavily leafed branches outside, there remains a feeling of recognition despite these minor changes. The way the blankets of green reflect in the cabinet doors sends waves of nostalgia of many afternoons spent sat on the woven carpets underfoot. I am listening to Bright Eyes, one particular album that I used to listen to on a loop as I walked home from school, enhancing that feeling that I have been transported back to another period of my life. Simultaneously I am an infant, decorating the floor with an array of lego blocks from the seemingly bottomless green canvas box in the corner of the room, and a teenager sitting on a wooden chair across from my mum as I tell her of my recent trip to Portugal, watching as the sun draws patterns upon my sun kissed skin. Every time I now return to this room I appear changed. By my recent travels, or my first year living on my own. The red velvet sofa remains consistently the same, though the holes in its back are telling of an ageing process not too separated from my own, but a different person sits on it. Even so, as I hang out the washing I am overcome by that same smell of fresh linen and find myself surrounded by all those previous versions. There is a resounding comfort of being back in this room that I hope will never change; of having a base, a sanctuary that refuses to alter alongside the continual changes of a hectic life. My mother who continues to perch on the end of that same sofa, listening to me ramble on with an understanding that never falters. As I ready myself to return once again to the building I have learnt to call home for the past 2 months, anticipating my second year at university, I take great comfort in knowing that my second home will remain beckoning at the end of a train line. The walls laced with memories of a childhood all but lost and the one consistent of a parent, characterised by an unconditional care that will not be matched anywhere else.
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