There is a time and a place in my life that I will carry with me, no matter where I live or how my memories may crumble and fade with time. It's not a memory of an event or occurrence to be precise, but the emotions that they inspire. One achieves a similar feeling as a child when they place that last piece of a puzzle into its slot and it all fits perfectly, or when finishing the final page of a favourite book. Similar to the feeling of accomplishment but unique in its own, it's a sense of belonging that one associates with the word "home," and all those lucky enough to have ever been loved know this feeling. Now, stepping into adulthood, I feel blind as a newborn and unsure of myself as the child first learning to ride a bike. I don't know the direction my life will take and I barely know the meaning of the word "responsibility," but I feel a different person than I was ten years ago and I miss seeing life through a child's eyes. Yet, when I wake up this cold December morning to the insistent whirring of the coffee grinder - a noise as familiar and comforting as my mother's heart beat - and the all-encompassing warmth of my down old down quilt, the child in me comes alive once more. Even when I grow old and my joints begin to ache with age as my mother often complains of, and my movements become as cautious as that of my old dog Tootsie in the last years of her life, that black-eyed, mop-haired, ragamuffin who hides within me will remember the sounds of family and the smells of home.
I'm waking up this Saturday morning to the first day of the Christmas holidays, fresh from the pressures of school and the exam season rush. Once I've gained some semblance of awareness and I realize I'm not late for class, I begin to play the game I've played so many times before as a child. Each scent, each sound that floats up to my bedroom from the downstairs, I've learned to interpret through years of routine and I can envision the scene as if I were down in the kitchen myself. Footsteps fall slow and heavy on the kitchen floor, their movements punctuated by the dull thumping of the dog's tail. It's Dad in the downstairs - I know him for his slow purposeful tempo, while mom always creates a sense of rush whenever she's working in the kitchen. My nose informs me that the coffee is brewing and there's fresh bread baking, while the clatter of plastic bowls wakes my stomach to the possibility of scones or pancakes. In the background, the radio adds its own steady rhythm to the orchestra of scents and sounds that creep into my still sleepy stupor. Burrowing deeper into thick quilts, I'm reassured by the morning routine. Home is always here for me, wherever I am, as long as there's coffee to brew, warm quilts to snuggle deep into, and loved ones near by. Perhaps I'll sleep a little longer.
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