HomeFor the restless, 'home' is a difficult concept; the idea of a physical or hypothetical place we are tied to. That we will always return to. That we will always belong to. Milo has always said that airports are his home, or train stations or motor way service stops. Home is where the heart is, and Milo’s heart is in escape. He dreams of flitting from place to place and belonging to them all, absorbing everything and being absorbed as he runs free. But even those who run are running from somewhere and no one can outrun the primal ache that calls us back.
‘You could have called. Or do hippies not have phones?’
‘I called you to get you here, but it’s good to know you’ve not gotten any funnier,’ Milo murmurs into the cigarette he’s lighting. He inhales deeply, letting his eyelids droop over the patchwork of green and yellow fields.
‘I meant before that, when you were gone? We were still here, thinking about you. We don’t stop exis