Dear 02138,

How long do you have to stay someplace for it to become home? Does it need an amma, slobbering dogs and the bed you first peed in (ew)? A large garden where you scabbed your baby knees and an old, browned hose that used to be pink, lying silently on the side? Old friends who are now on unrecognizable new ground but still smile sideways when you mention their dirty fingernails in third standard? Maybe a school playground you broke a swing in for good measure?

Or can towns you first fell in love with (in) qualify? With hot tea and summer afternoons of pins and needles? Maybe towns you first needed to wear a jumper in? With their old gullies and polluted wisps of morning blooms that always take you back to the start? Perhaps cities by the sea, with red rooms and warm lighting? Ones that calm and collect, claim stake and stalk?

Or maybe it has nothing to do with any of this. Perhaps the connection lies more deeply. In old brick buildings that set you free, sea bedded airports that make you smile every time. In small coffee houses you wrote your real words in. In picture windows that looked at green, frozen rivers, cloud making factories and allowed for toe curling chatter. In basement offices with no good paper and a bad lock system. In thin dorm rooms with molty carpets.

When does it become OK to call it home?

Is it enough, then, if it has cobbled streets, frozen yogurt and your favourite Lobster pizza? Or do you have to fall clumsily on said streets (check), hate and then grow to love the famed yogurt (check) and recommend the pizza even if the last time you had it, it had too much salt (check).

You will be a certain special home in my heart, 02138.

xxx