socks on the kitchen floor

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Tonight I was cooking. And baking. Two of my favourites from ‘home.’ Ginger crunch. And some crazy spicey mince meal for the flatties. Well I don’t even know that they were favourites. I just associate it with home and it feels good. That familiar feeling of hovering over the stove thrashing the mince so it goes all crumbly and separated while it bubbles and steams in your face.

And the ginger crunch, well that took two attempts. New oven I’d like to blame it on. It just feels so good. I love how my odd socks on the kitchen floor get dirtier by the minute from all my little spills and all the rolled away crumbs. That feeling I’ve had at different times so many times before. All these things make me feel ‘home.’

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 Maybe home is a matter of comfort. Of doing the familiar. The same way you’ve always done it in a different place. Strangely comforting. Maybe home is a matter of knowing who’s been in all these little familiar ‘ socks on the kitchen floor’ moments – past, present and future. Knowing he was beside you when you were three, sitting on the bench with your chubby hands all covered in cookie dough watching your sister. Knowing he was there when you learnt how to measure the butter. Knowing he was there smiling when you thought a cup of chicken stock meant a cup of chicken stock powder.

 Maybe – just maybe – he makes these little moments home. He makes them that bit more special. Because  he’s in them all. Maybe its less about where you are and more about who’s with you in the same moments you do in different places. And no matter where you are, who is or isn’t with you – he is – sharing and blessing you with silly yet beautiful moments. Like. Dirty socks on the kitchen floor. Reminding us he’s there and always will be

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The Author

30. Counsellor + Post Grad Theology Student + Ponderer + Writer + Do-er of hair.

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