Home.

Walking from the airport to the car as my dad pulls around to load our things, the air is wet and there’s a crisp smell of freshness fighting its way through the car and airplane exhaust fumes.

Although you can’t see the rain falling, you’re getting wet as you move through the slick streets and damp pavements.

It’s just... there.

Driving home, the windshield wipers are on, even though all you can see is fog in the near distance.

This is my rain. 

No soft pitter-patter on the roof, no real sight of even tiny drops falling; but water appearing on the windows as we drive through this cloud.

Brick houses stand proud just feet from the narrow, winding roads, whilst pedestrians negotiate the paths and islands between traffic.

Familiar sights that have become so alien over the my years of absence - the pelican crossings; the pedestrian-focused footpaths and railings; cars parked half on, half off the road; the shape of the little red man on the walk/don’t walk lights.

I look out of the car window across a field. There sits a lone house surrounded by a handful of bushes and small trees; a hedgerow trailing away, splitting up the land. Of course, we can’t see the extend of the property because this raincloud lies across the place - obscuring the view but... completing it. The picture wouldn’t be the same if you could see it all.

Shop signs and road names greet us like old friends. The glow of the storefronts illuminating the roads as the mist keeps the early morning look and feel well into the later morning hours.

Everything is waking up as we arrive.

We’re just in time.

Following smaller cars at higher speeds while being half the distance away than we would back stateside, we wind through the motorways and B-roads to get to town. My small hometown humbly hosting a population that rivals the second-largest city in our state.

We pass the shop I used to walk to for lunch. We pass an old college I once went to.

A mile later, we’re hitting the edge of the town proper; a few furniture and appliance stores, a music shop and an alcohol store. Very much outskirt business outlets, but still important enough to greet you on your way in on this main road. 

We squeeze between parked cars as we approach the house; the roads still wet and the water still running down the sides of the car. As we open the doors and unload, the rain hits you very softly from every direction you move. Suspended there and waiting for you to interact with it.

Unloaded and settling down, we collapse onto various couches and floor spaces. The boys break out daddy’s old toys and get to work.

Granny Mops cooks up something “small” - only a handful of sausages, a dozen pigs in blankets, a pack of bacon, a full tray of potato cubes and half a loaf of bread. Eggs would have joined the party if Kid 1 was’t allergic.

We chow down. 

There’s a hundred things we want to do while we’re here, but there’s no rush.

We’re home now, and that’s all that matters.

23 hours after we set off from our house in the States, we’ve made it. Tired and hungry, we’ve done it. Ready for a good sleep and some good breakfast, we’re here. 

Kid 1 looks up at me, curious. “This is home?” he squeaks, with an expectant smile that warms my heart. 

“Yeah, Spud,” I smile in return. “Yeah, this is home.”