Sometimes On Sunday’s I Want To Go Home

Sometimes on Sundays.

They say – think big. See that box? Think big. They say- never stop. See that sky? Never stop. They say- want more. See that home? Want more.

I went away this weekend. Saw sparkles on dresses with promises of free champagne. Saw a city of autumn leaves like a 2 dollar postcard. I saw gold and bronze and grand pianos. Mink and fur and cashmere. Think big- they say. There were walls of glass. There was no box. The sky was everywhere. And home, nowhere to be found.

I said good-bye to my friend at gate four. We ate chips and shared a diet coke. She was heading back to Brisbane.

My boarding pass said Sydney. My calendar said busy. My itinerary said progress. There were events to organise. People to impress. Stockings to wear. It’s not all that bad. This whole grown-up with a job business. Words try and trick me though. Turns out my words can dress up too. ‘Market’. Apparently it’s not all dream catchers, tie dye and chicken kebabs. ‘Briefs’. More than underwear it turns out.

So my boarding pass said Sydney. No luggage. No box. The sky. Again. Was everywhere. I said good-bye to my friend at gate four. She was heading back. Home.

And I wasn’t.

Which totally sucked some serious grown up ass.

But you know how it is sometimes on Sundays…