RETURNING HOME

I have not been home for 13 years.

Returning to the place where I spent my childhood was vindicating, it confirmed what I had previously thought could have only been a child’s imagination.

When I arrived, the truth of my memory washed over me, like a heavy rain.

The sand feels the same, it sounds like I remember and it is still abrasive when it is on the wind. 

The dunes I ran along have moved, grown and receded, but still remain.

The smell of the sea, the smell of the marsh, the smell of my old room. 

The Aramoana massacre memorial, where my friend Leo’s name is written.

The bushes infront of the lagoon where I made my castle. 

The ominous barn full of wood for the fire. 

The flattened out tussock where the seals would lay in the sun, where I would lay after they had gone.

All of it was real. 

It wasn’t my imagination.

-Moreporks Outdoors Society