Fresh Basil and Cold Rosé

Last night, this house was warm with people, voices and light. Drea and her little family arrived bringing groceries and good rosé. Lola fed herself strawberries and sat on the counter. D arrived later with more wine.

Gilles was the chef. Inspired by Jamie Oliver and the Food Network, he filled the house with smells of basil, garlic and tomatoes. He shelled fresh peas, just like the ones I fell madly in love with in Paris. He lunged and sniffed and tasted. Drea and Boyfriend did damage control on the growing radius of splattered tomatoes and oil from the sausages. He was an artist. It was Bastille Day. We celebrated in style.

There is talk of Drea and Gilles heading back to France. Gilles parents live on a huge lot in the south of France – a lot big enough that they could build another house on it quite comfortably. Talk turned to family. The importance of good, strong ones. The sun went down and the lights warmed the inside spaces.

We talked about the living of dreams. We brainstormed ideas. Discussed website concepts that work in San Francisco and debated whether they'd work here. Restaurants. Writing. How well the fresh peas worked with the tomatoes and garlic.

This is what home feels like.

It occurred to me that being bathed in these smells and flavours, being surrounded by these people is one of the best things I can think of. I forgot why, the day before, I was so desperate to leave here.

It's not the furniture that makes a house into the home, it's the people. It's the energy of life and love and connection swirling around a place, seeping into its walls, its water.

This is what I want. A house filled to overflowing with love. This is what home is. This is what family is. This is what has been missing in my life. It's been a tiny leak, my insides slipping out little by little and my heart slowly breaking. The kind of loss you almost can't feel. Until, of course, you can.