THE MOTHER LODE
My mother turned 60 this August, and it is impossible for me to think about home without thinking about her.
HOME IS NOT A PLACE; IT IS A PERSON.
All my childhood memories have her in them. Each recollection is filled to the brim with sensory information that makes remembering feel like reliving. There is in our lounge after I ditched ballet for modern dance, and her cheers poolside at galas. The taste of kumquats picked from our garden, their citrussy smell and sour flavour always taking me back to our first house. The soft texture of her dressing gown that my head rested on as she read to my sister and me in bed. The smell of her perfume that lingered on her clothes as I borrowed (stole) them as a teenager. Home is not a place; it is a person.
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