I was back in Tasmania over the weekend, and not just to the places I usually go. I went back to one of the towns I lived in as a teenager. I had mixed feelings about going back, but as it turns out, it was OK. I survived. I may have even learnt a thing or two about myself.
The thing is old haunts like this, places that you all but turn your back on in a bid to forget, leave behind, move on – these places don’t leave you. Even when you try. Perhaps especially because you try.
As I sat at an airport for hours and hours waiting for my flight I had the luxury of time to reflect and mull over the days. What I realised is that while this place shaped me, it doesn’t have to. That friends will be friends no matter the distance and time. That tears come when you least expect them. That holding the hand of a friend brings you home and that if you only know three people at a wedding you can dance badly for hours just for the sheer joy of it and breathe baby breathe.
To my Darling Mrs Miller, thank you for holding my hand, I needed it more than you knew.
To my Always Best Pam, love, just that. Pure, simple, easy.