Home grown

I’m home. Home for the funeral. It’s nice. This small town that I’ve wanted to escape from can often embrace. It’s always warmer here. People in the street give a nod or a hello. The sunshine was delicious today. The sky spans further than I’ll ever see in the city.

My Dad, he spoils me. He makes sure I never goes without. He bought everything I like for lunch today – cheese, cold meats and a pork pie. He served it with homegrown sprouts and tomatoes. And he’s so proud of me. So proud. I told him I didn’t win the Best Blogs competition and that the blogger who did (Eden Riley) is the best writer in the world. He told me how great it was that I was a finalist – and empathised when I told him I don’t think I am consistent. Dad’s a great writer too. We picked vegetables from the garden and I distracted the sheep while he went in the paddock to put feed down for them. We’ve had adult conversations, and playful ones too. He has just told me that I’m “not just a silly bimbo” after I’ve shown him how to create a mix tape for the funeral. Hah! Such a Dad compliment. When I was little he told me I’ll always be his little girl, even when I’m 30. I’m 30 now.

Mum’s come home from work. I want to cook dinner with her and talk over glasses of wine, near the fire. We’ll talk about food mostly – I bought her a subscription to a beautiful food magazine and we’ll talk about the New York street food in the latest issue. I have bought her a jacket from the op shop today. It’s a beautiful grass green jacket. Dad hates it but I think Mum will love it.There’ll be laughs too. There always are.

It’s nice being home. This week I’ve felt a bit lost this week. Now I’m here, with my parents, who just get me. I really appreciate and love my parents. I’m so lucky to have them.

Edit: Mum hates the jacket. She told me. And then we burst into a fit of laughter.