Renée

The sound of dumpling and meat soup Bubbling on the stove. The sound of knives and forks clanking together As you simultaneously feast. Tv Static. Capital Xtra. LBC. The slow and peaceful “ahhh” your mouth subconsciously lets out, As you rest your head on the pillow And get cosy under the blanket. The sound of home – the light, the dark, the warmth, the cold – All become settled And set up shop in between your taste buds.

Everything is more authentic. Authentic? Every granule of sugar dissolves. And you know mum’s tea is the best Because that heavy sigh of relief escapes The passageway - From your diaphragm to your nostril, From your nostril to the open air. The smell Of home.

The smell of home is a traitor. He doesn’t want you to smell him - but he throws himself at the stranger next door. The look of home is disjointed like a severed limb that just won’t fall off. You step away from the door, the key leaves the lock and Puff! Like a distant dream you can’t pinpoint the exact image - Like fragile seeds being blown away by the wind.

But then, You follow the lines of the brass knocker with your index, The aging of the metal rigid on your soft skin. Then, the look of home comes flooding in, like a dam bursting – Do you remember when you fell off from the top of the bunk bed? Do you remember when you rearranged your room at 4am? Do you remember how that tea stain got sealed into the mattress?

The look of home is smothering - Not too much that you suffocate But just enough to keep you in your cocoon. And there it goes, The seven AM alarm

And the outside world drags you into its routine. But you are no longer a caterpillar But a worker bee. Fly busy bee, fly. Then back to the colony.