When I was a kid I used to have a cat and to me she was looking like a giant. I used to follow her explorations and attentive walks around the perimeter of the living room. I wished to be a cat too when I was seeing her walking over the very top of the kitchen’s cupboards or climbing trees and walls in our garden.
I remember a lot of sunny days, the smell of the tomato leaves, the day I hid in the garden and ate raw pees for the entire afternoon: “Granny, I’m telling you, they taste like candies!”. I used to sing nonsense words jumping around, sure that if none could see me, then none could hear me either. I used to stick flowers and leaves on a notebook with blue pages.
Home was Christmas, the smell of food, of melted candles. Sparkles over the trees, taste of snow, fire. Home was the seaside, the sand was too hot, castles were built in few minutes, ice-cream was always allowed. The wind carried the sand, the water carried me. The skin of my arms was salty, the eyes deeply blue, deeply happy. “Going back home”. One, two, three steps away from home. Going back home was walking from school to my door.
Later I had to take a train, then a car, then a plane if I wanted to reach home.
I remember a lot of trains and rails and backpacks, tickets, diaries, headphones, songs, inked fingers, messy hair. I remember walking and walking and running and walking and turning around and running away. I used to feel home inside the boring grey of the city, wandering around the unbearably hot walls of the buildings. Home was nowhere, everywhere, wherever I wanted. Fly, escape, go away. I couldn’t eat the same food, couldn’t stand the same landscape. The beauty was fading away, the revolution was coming closer and closer. The mistakes, the things that don’t work, the questions. Sometimes it’s impossible to find home without travelling very far away from it.
I found so many different homes around the world.
The revolution became a journey, the breakaway became a route. The eyes wide open: time to learn. The colours are on canvas, the words in many languages, the houses smaller, the silence inexistent. Ideas in my head, friendships inside my heart. Someone else starts walking by my side. There’s a new home here, with a door, a smell, a little crack in the wall with a funny shape.
Home is like a puzzle, like a map you have to draw. Home is thinking in a different language, painting walls with your favorite colour. Waking up on a Sunday and go buy coffee wearing pyjamas under your coat. Things that were so far away become so close and so indispensable. Home is also going back, hearing a dialect you thought none was speaking anymore, looking at the same blue sky. Home is always there. Home is where I am. Home is Love.