Home is probably one of the most powerful words in our vernacular. Particularly if you’re an islander. Nostalgia is either wiped away or becomes even stronger when one comes home to Malta after time away.
But small islands need to be abandoned for a while if we want to appreciate them. In my case, it took about ten years. These days, it’s more like two weeks to start missing ‘stuff’.
The senses kick in. First, the colours, the blues and the ochres. Then it’s creature comforts. Spaces, the cat asleep in the garden but with just the slightest twitch of a tail in case something strays into her territory. The church bells every fifteen minutes – hoarse, dour, tuneful, tuneless. The taste of summer, still lingering, almost passing, flickering. A dry prosecco, blood-ret sunset, and the child waiting for an answer to yet another question. The rattle of keys. Books, monitors, comfort in the hum of technology. A door-stop ftira biz-zejt. Sand still stuck between the toes. A shower in the early morning. Full moon, now the spire is no longer illuminated. Crisp linen sheets. Penny for your thoughts.
The video below appears to have hit a chord with both the insiders and the outsiders. I think can you can tell why.