The Weight of Place

Place.

Something I have always felt out of.

“How can I write about Place,” I complain, “when I don’t have one?”

I sit down at my desk. It’s an old hand me down, since I couldn’t afford my own when I moved out. It wobbles, and one of the legs is only held up by sheer luck at this point. The left corner has been chewed by my dad’s dog, and the fractured wood catches on my elbow every time I sit down. Somehow, I never learn to lift my elbow.

My desk chair, though, was a steal. Not literally. A mother giving it away so she could upgrade her son’s gaming room. It’s high backed, luxurious and large. I picked it up and crammed it into the back of my yellow Fiat 500. That had been a nightmare. By the time I left, I was sweating, with loose hairs from my ponytail sticking down to my forehead.

I’ve pushed my desk into the tiny nook beside my bed, right up against the window. I couldn’t afford new curtains when I moved so I kept the old ones. Orange, frayed, kinda dusty. I like them, despite their ugliness. I never close my curtains anyway.

Looking out into the garden, I see the dying grass and crooked shed. The trinkets I have collected over the years are scattered around. Some along the fence, some at the base of the tree. A gargoyle. A statue. A metal bird. Dog toys litter the grass, some still safe, others ripped in half after a particularly enthusiastic play session. Daisies crop up despite the suffering of their grassy base.

Could this be my Place?

It’s nice. It’s comfortable. It feels familiar. But it isn’t a place with a capital ‘p’ for me. It isn’t coming home after a long day and feeling like you belong.

I lean back in my chair. The back really is very high, so my head rests perfectly each time I stop and sigh, defeated by writer’s block. The fabric has torn and scratches against my thighs. The wide arms get caught under the desk and I have to shove them roughly to get out.

I’m out walking my dog now, and I remember the house I grew up in, the people I grew up with. A conservatory that was too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer. The kitchen with the cool stone surface I sat on every day after school while my mum cooked dinner. The stairs my siblings and I used to surf. The same stairs I sat at the top of as my parent’s marriage fell apart. The bedroom I hid my brother and sister and sang loudly in so they couldn’t hear the fights. The garden we chased our childhood dog around. The rose bush I planted for my uncle when he died. The rose bush that was pulled up as soon as my mum’s next boyfriend moved in.

Nope, definitely not my Place.

I’m cooking dinner now. Spaghetti Bolognese. It’s not my favourite but I know my boyfriend loves it after a hard day at work. The window is open and the soft breath of wind floats over me, smelling like freshly mowed grass. What does it mean to belong somewhere and why, when I think of Place, do I automatically search in the deepest parts of myself for somewhere I can call home?

I think back to the countries I have explored. Bumpy roads in Tanzania crammed into the back of a dala dala. I smile when I remember the goat someone hid under my seat. The cold beaches of Australia because I was stupid enough to decide to visit during their winter. I smile when I remember the road trip with my best friend on the way to choose her wedding dress?

I laugh when I think back to the bench we sat on when we first discovered Taco Tuesday and crammed ten tacos each into our too full bellies.

My life, I realise, has been full of places. My childhood bedroom shared with my sister, and then the hospital room she stayed in as a sick child. My grandparents old flat with the net curtains and a box of cards. The slide where I had my first kiss. The school I met my oldest friends in. My first solo apartment. The bathroom where I experienced the worst night of my life. The road in Bulgaria made of stones that hurt our feet but left us laughing until our stomachs ached.

The question of this assignment, of my place with a capital ‘p’ plays on my mind all day. Where do I fit? Is it the sofa I wrap myself up on in the evenings? Could it be the fort I built with my siblings as a child?

I sit and search for so long that day slowly tangles with night.

Bedtime rolls around. The house is quiet. The dog has been breathing lightly in my lap for the last hour. Her fur is soft from the bath today. Her anger for said bath has vanished and she is now willing to sit with me again after a valiant effort at sulking. I smile and rub the spot at the tip of her nose that she likes. Her big ears occasionally flutter in sleep. I scoop her up in my arms and her head naturally falls softly on my shoulder as it has a hundred times before. Her skin has always been loose – she’s always been tiny for a Frenchie – but as she gets older I can feel the way her body has aged. The fur around her face is almost entirely grey now. Gone are the brown speckles that scattered her fur, replaced with white that coats her like sugar. My favourite tooth of hers – the one I lovingly called scraggle tooth – has long since fallen out, leaving a gap at the front of her mouth. Her snout is covered in scars from where she never learns to stop scratching her face so aggressively. Behind one of her ears is a tiny skin tag.

I’ve always said that that skin tag was put there by the universe because it wasn’t fair that she was such a perfect dog. The scales had to be balanced.

With the dog in one arm, I pull back the covers to my bed and slide in, falling into the same sleep position we have shared for the last nine years. Home had never felt like home until she was in it. During the lonely years of my twenties, she was the thread that stitched me back together each night. The walks through fields alone, except for each other, healed me. And our car rides with her little head poking out the window, ears waving crazily, brought me back to life. Slowly, over the years, she waited patiently while I put myself back together.

She slots perfectly into the space by my stomach when I lay down. My eyes fall heavy as sleep welcomes me. My pillow is familiar. My duvet is soft and light.

I hear the sound of shuffling, footsteps, a t-shirt being pulled over a head. Our duvet lifts and the warm weight of my love causes the mattress to dip slightly as he slips into bed behind me. Immediately, before he has even settled, I feel his strong arms - always so warm - pulling me into him. The curve of my back rests just right against the softness of his front. His legs lift up and scoop mine until we effortlessly fit against each other. Like two pieces from a puzzle we have our whole lives to finish. His head nestles into my neck and I feel his light kiss against my skin.

We fall asleep just like that. The three of us in our own beautiful bubble. Haydn, wrapped around me, holding me close. Kaia, tucked into me, holding me together.

This, I think. This is my Place.