My whole being yearns to return to this corner of me. A place where I can immerse myself in the craft of syntax and grammar, words and phrases.
Alas, I have lost the habit of writing daily with the turmoil that has been our lives this past year.
The longer I leave it, the harder it is to return.
As we walk the kilometre or so along the beach front each day to school and back, small but persuasive paragraphs burst into my head, demanding attention like neglected children, only to be scolded to the back of my mind as quickly as they form.
A half heard conversation sparks a story, the perfect curve of a green white wave crest made silver in the morning light, the aroma of fresh ground coffee wafting towards us and mingling deliciously with the smell of a single strand of honeysuckle flower that trails languidly over a fence.
It's been a long old journey home.