eleven days.

I’m home for a spell.

It’s winter in Australia. The air is clean and crisp like a new set of white sheets. You can breathe it in and it has a slight burn as it travels through your nose. I’ve had rain and shine and this tells me that Melbourne is still the same as always. Unpredictable but home. I’m loosing my Europe tan, fast. And all of those travels I’ve done, and sights I’ve seen are a world away.

I know I’m in Australia when I’m on my way home from the airport and the highway is filled with Holden utes of every shape and colour. The traffic lights turn red to green, not red to amber to green. Everyone speaks English, although ‘well’, I’m not so sure. I have space and quietness and the only thing that fills my head are the songs of birds. I see a kangaroo feeding on the grass beside my home and it lifts its head as I pull in much faster than I should. I haven’t lost touch with a manual, not yet.

But things have changed from a February to an August. My little brother and sister are not so little. A renovation has been completed. I have a different toned carpet after the floods ruined my old charcoal-carpet. A beloved cousin is home from Cambodia. A dearest friend is now in London. An engaged couple is now a married couple. As it should be, the world is circling.

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