The workers in Warpole Park unpacking a truck were speaking Italian, calling back and forth instructions. When people ask them where they are from, do they say the region of Italy, the town where their parents where born, christened and wed? What if their mum is from a region far from their dad's birthplace that whispers stories that are vastly different; of mountains and snow, rather than seaside? What if they've never been to these towns? What if it's only these stories? Are they still from Italy? Do they FEEL they are from Italy? Does it matter to them? I've always been from at least two places. And I write about this more than anything else. Wales, England. Australia. Tomorrow I fly home to Melbourne, from my home in London. From my Dad, step-mum and brothers to my husband, to my children. What makes a home? Is it the knowing of a place in all its seasons? The calls of the birds and insects? The scurry of the mammals in the night. Is it the scent in the morning? ...
Oversharing is my form of caring