Eight, if you want to get technical.

There’s the one in a small town where my grandparents lived. It had an abundance of nooks and crannies to hide in, shelves lined with board games I’d force my dad to play and an ever-present smell of freshly baked cakes.

One came with a large indoor patio. It had a koi pond and a hammock. One day I launched myself into that pond, using the hammock like a catapult. I was seven. No fish were hurt. My parents were not amused.

Another was actually an apartment. We lived on the 27^th floor. It had a great view of the Jakarta skyline…and graveyards. Sometimes on dark nights around the witching hour, you could catch glimpses of figures in white. (Or so my friend who lived a floor above swore. I’d scoff but my mum had to buy me a nightlight.) My fondness for gothic fiction and ghost stories can probably be traced back to here.

Then there’s the one I’ve been living in for these past few years. It’s by the Coquitlam River, in quiet, cozy neighbourhood. Inside there’s a stubborn little shih tzu, a tabby cat who thinks she’s a dog, a sister who can be a best friend and an annoying pain by turns.

They all felt like home to me.

Growing up, my family moved quite a bit, I suppose. Not as much as some, but enough. Two different continents, three different cities, but you know the strangest part? It’s only when I sat down to write this blog that it hit me – I’ve lived in eight different houses.

This is telling.

I suppose I never thought of them as being separate spaces. They sort of just bled into each other. They were all just simply home. They were all filled with people (and animals) I loved, memories and comfort. They were safe spaces, where I could be myself. They weren’t necessarily the happiest of places – there were always a few arguments, tears, periods of feeling misunderstood as a teenager but despite that all, they were places I felt like I belonged. And that belonged to me.

Of course, this is not to say that the minute after we moved to a new city, a new house, it felt instantly like home. But it happened eventually, until we forgot it had ever been strange and new. We made the unfamiliar familiar. In hindsight, I guess we did use rituals and sentimental things to get there faster – I would set up my old study table I’ve had since I was ten. My mum would hang that wooden carving we bought on an amazing family vacation to Bali. When we’d finally find those boxes marked ‘Kitchen’, we’d reinstate our Sunday brunches. I suppose this is all a very long-winded way of saying that for me, home is not just one physical, concrete space. It’s where the memories are. It’s with the people you love.

“As long as we’re together, does it matter where we go? Home” 

WORKS CITED

Aplin, Gabrielle. Home. 2011. YouTube. Web. 30 Jan. 2015.