Fragment of Memories.

This January, the rain has been painting my days in a wet and grimy mood. The cool air, the strong breeze, the white, muted skies and the sudden flourish of water that pours in the afternoon somehow reminds of Melbourne.

I spent six years of my life there, and I finally came back to Indonesia six years ago. And yet, sometimes I’m reminded of it in ways that I don’t think are possible.

Like the time when I drive home, when the traffic is insane and there are massive container trucks surrounding me. When I look up to the skies, I’m reminded of Melbourne in winter time. It is the same, grey sky that froze my cheeks and numbed my fingers. I remember the time when I used to take drives with my host sister in the almost empty freeway, a privilege that I don’t get to experience here, except for the odd Saturdays when we have to come in.

Like the time when I walk out of the office building to my car, and the cool breeze blows so softly through my hair, and I’m reminded of Melbourne in summer time. How the breeze in the evening felt so nice in contrast to the humid, hot air that scorched us all the way through the day. I’d always loved Melbourne’s summer evenings. Especially the short walk that I always took from the station back to home in Camberwell, where the street was quiet and the trees stood tall and shadowed the lights, making the whole atmosphere somewhat mystic and peaceful.

Like the time when I take a break from checking on the piles of the students’ homework and look out through the window to the office’s surrounding garden that is quite nice and green, and I’m reminded of Melbourne’s Botanical Garden and of the frequent sights I used to see of office workers taking their breaks there, lying around on the grass reading the newspaper and enjoying the warmth of the sun, their take-away lunches sitting not far from them.

I heart Melbourne with all its crazy four-seasons-in-one-day weather, with the hustle and bustle of the city, with the quietness of Camberwell, with the hip and happening crowds in South Yarra, with the lushness of the gardens that were scattered all over the city and the individuality of the people, with the train trips I used to take to the city and to the university, even to zone three areas where it was barren and full of suburbian houses, Blockbusters and small shopping centres with Safeways, McDonalds and Big W’s.

In this present time, I still feel that the me that I remember then is still there, but she’s not quite here. Even though back then I probably felt that I didn’t quite belonged to the way the people lived, even here, back in Indonesia, I still don’t feel like I do.

I wonder what is the place where I can truly feel like I belong.

Because deep down, I still want to go home.