Home is not a place.
Home is a time.
Home is that time of the night
Where you can feel the whole world breathing
And the darkness is vast
And smooths the creases in the daylight world;
Softens the noises.
We are all the same place in darkness.

Or

Home is not a place.
Home is a person.
Home is sitting on a sofa in the twilight
With my brother, discussing Doctor Who.
Home was where he hugged me in the playground
When a teacher was mean, and we were small.
Home is when I see him again.

And

Home is not a place
Home is a person
Home is sitting in the passenger seat of my mum’s car
Putting the world to rights as she drives us… wherever.
Home was when she took us to the library van
Or picked us up from school.
Home is whenever I can call my mum.

And

Home is not a place
Home is a person
Home is holding my dad’s hand through the streets of Oslo.
Home is when he took me sledging, with my toes packed into boots.
Home is when he came to see me when I was grieving,
And called me his little one again.
Home is whenever we can catch up.

And

Home is not a place
Home is a person
Home is my partner’s eyes when he’s excited;
Home is in the gentleness of our evenings, in the quiet times, and the endless hugs.
Home is the starlight that we share in our hearts
And the promises and welcome that we hold.
Home is whenever we are together.

And

Home is yet more people.
Home is my cat, the best cat in the world, who sometimes still feels nearby.
Home is the bright-bedecked crowd that I dance with.
Home is the childhood friends that still love me.
Home is wherever I can give my old teddy bear a hug.

Home is my Nan and my Grandpa,
And the deeply kind magic they create.
Home is my Grandma
No-nonsense, in blouses, who might take the world on and win.
Home is my Grandpa
And the memory boardgames, and tomatoes in a sunny garden.

The best thing is, my home is not fractured.
My home is unnumbered and abounding.