Since I moved house for the first time I’ve always felt a bit lost, I’ve never known how to regain a sense of home. I’ve agonised over what I can do to feel more comfortable and happy – be near to my family, see my friends, fill my room with photos and things that remind me of things I’ve done, places I’ve been. Things that remind me where I’ve come from.
I took everything with me when I left home for uni, except for my children’s books, videos and toys, most of which we passed on to the new babies in the family. I still felt like I didn’t have much that meant anything to me, like something was missing. It may sound silly but the biggest comfort I got came from looking after my pot plants and sitting in the garden on an awkward wooden chair, whether it was sunny or not.
Sometimes I have to sleep with my feet outside the duvet so the air can get to them. I think I’m an outdoor person.
I’ve been dreaming of the future, of big things, of little pleasures, of a life with you and what we might have. A house, a dog, a garden. A garden you can get lost in, with trees you can climb, wild plants everywhere, life running through it. Somewhere you can go and fall asleep and not be found for hours. Fresh air. Plants in certain places, paths, landmarks like a scratch on a piece of wood that’s been standing against the gate for years. My garden was where I went. It was what I needed when I was angry. It was where I had birthdays. It was where we kept and buried pets. It was where my family would find each other after an argument. It was my warmth.
You are my garden.