I am back.

Its wintertime. Not that cold. Not that warm either.

A shy light is seeping through the windows, the curtains, under the door.

Six years have passed since the day I decided this was not enough,

this was not what I wanted to be.

Water splashes in the sink, garlic is in the air, the fridge buzzes.

I walk around the house. A clock, a lamp, a doll.

One moment I am a stranger, the next one, homesick.

I am a spy.

I grab my camera. Point it at you.

I press the shutter, again and again.

What I see, it is not the light, but moments stolen from the darkness of memory,

They take me in and push me out.

They are a recollection of what home is here now, what it is miles away and what no longer is.


Home is who I am and who I am not anymore.

I am back.

Home is the place you grew up in. Home is a safe haven. Home is a comfy bed. Home is the food you love. Home is where your oldest friends are. Home can be all of these things but also none of them.
© Giacomo Russo 2020