Next week I go home. Unfamiliar, because my parents have recently shifted to a new place, a new city. But home is home. It has a father, a mother and two dogs. Familiar furniture, my bed, the sofa on which I have spent long lazy afternoons reading, books that I have grown up around, the stack of old records no longer heard, the typical smell of food cooked by Mamma, as distinct from other food smells as fingerprints of individuals.

Home, home again.
I like to be here when I can.
When I come home cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire.
Far away across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spells.
~The Dark Side of the Moon