I moved to Melbourne in early 2001. I moved here to have a change from my hometown, see more bands and be with my new interstate boyfriend.
Truly. How cute were we?
I don’t regret moving here. In fact, I love living in Melbourne. I love my life here. It’s my home now. But there have been times that I feel far.
When my brother burned his hand so badly he ended up in hospital and needed skin grafts. When one of my best friend’s son had to be revived at birth and he was on life support while we waited to see if he would make it (he did, just). When I had both of my miscarriages. When the family dog we had since I was a teen had to be put to sleep. When my nieces and nephews were born and on every one of their birthdays. When Harper was a baby and yet to meet my family. When my Pop died.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the feeling of a sudden urgent need to be with my family. My blood.
That pang of homesickness that makes me want to dip my feet in the ocean at Burleigh Heads or eat my Mum’s pork fillets or watch my brother’s kids run around the pirate park.
I have these pictures pinned up on the cork board behind my computer. The picture above my family pic from a few years ago is of my Nan and her twin sister. This morning my Mum rang me in tears to tell me that her Auntie from that photo had passed away. She was 93 and she went peacefully in her sleep.
I had that familiar feeling of being seemingly a billion miles away and just wanting to give my Mum a hug. I want to hug my Nan too.
But I’m far.
And I’ll never grow to like this feeling.