If I was home

Yesterday, instead of feeling sad in London.

I'd have gone to the beach for a walk with The Gorgeous, our hands wrapped around take away coffees. I'd have listened and nodded and let her talk. We'd walk along the pier, lean against the railing while I traced the carvings with my fingers, we'd peer over and count the starfish.
Remember how many times we'd made this walk in our lifetimes, how right there my first love had held my hand and kissed me.
How right there she had had her wedding pictures taken, twisting her ring awkwardly around her finger.

We'd arrive late at my parents, breathless and flushed from the sea air, the sound of family and friends echoing through the rooms. My father would hand us caesars, take our coats and kiss our cheeks, smiling. My mother would cast disapproving looks our way, shake her head and return to the kitchen, a glass of wine in hand.

The dining room would be full, the tables crowded with conversation and food. Empty wine bottles removed, shouts over the last sweet potato, plates cleared. My father would run downstairs, return with his arms wrapped around liqueurs. The Gorgeous would jump up, berating my mother's choice of coffee and grab the cafetiere. More hands in the kitchen, grabbing cream, and plates and my home made pumpkin pies.

And we'd all sit back at the end, patting stomachs too full with food. The candles almost finished, discarded napkins on the table and on the floors, several hours later there would still be conversation and a reluctance to leave the table.

And then the flurry of goodbyes, everyone with plates full of food to take home, stomachs aching from laughter and too much turkey. And we'd stand in the kitchen, amongst leftovers and dirty dishes, The Gorgeous, my mom and I.

If I was home.