A House is Not a Home

Words by: Marla Sommer
Art by: Therese Dias

I was 12 when my parents bought what is now our family home, nestled in between beach and parkland. I remember being the first to slide my hands across the sold sticker; while my parents were busy adulting, I was already picking my room. It never occurred to me how much being at that one auction would shape what I’d come to know as home.

A House is Not a Home

Mum Wang’s Private Kitchen

Words by: Kate Zhang

When I walked into the Chinese restaurant opposite Coles in Caulfield Plaza, its owner June Wang greeted me with enthusiasm and asked me what I would like to order.

“Which one do your customers like the most?” I asked Mum Wang, flipping through the menu.

“It’s a difficult question,” she replied. “Everything on my menu is created by my customers. They said to me: ‘I want to have eggplant pot.’ And then I tried to cook some for them to taste. They told me: ‘Oh, it’s delicious!’ Then I add it to the menu. Every dish was created in this way. So, my menu is filled with what my customers like.”

Mum Wang’s Private Kitchen

Currents and Their Callings

Words and art by: Madeleine Galea

I used to think I was my interests, 

favourite things, 

books, quotes, colours, foods,

the idiosyncrasies that others could see, 

the things that had come naturally, 

the things I had done,

now, I’m not sure.

I feel like a grain of sand

washing around in the ocean,

trying to gain traction,

to form an island all of my own,

Instead, I’m blown from coast to coast. 

never quite mine, 

roving right into rivers of righteous irritation,

trying to find myself among cohorts of  lost souls,

trying to build my home in a hurricane. 

Instead of me are the fragments of what people have left behind,

those I admired,  

people I have loved, 

the way I cook my eggs and order my coffee,

my own reflection, 

and maybe it’s not such a curse,

to find yourself lost

The Fear and Freedom of Leaving Home

Words by: Angel Tully
Art by: Brooke Stevens

Flashback to February 2021: I have just finished the best summer of my life. Year 12 is over, lockdown is over, all my friends have just turned 18 — we are thriving. After riding this high, and discovering all the joys of being independent and venturing into adult life, I knew I wanted a change; a big one at that! I could have gotten a funky new haircut, or maybe reinvented my wardrobe, but no, I decided at the ripe age of 18 that I wanted to move out, all on my own. 

The Fear and Freedom of Leaving Home

That Home

Words by: Xenia Sanut
Art by: John Paul Macatol

I wake up to butterflies. Paper butterflies circle the ceiling above me. With the butterflies, photographs hang from thin strings. They mark the places I’ve been, the friends I’ve made and lost, my family — whether they be in the room next to me, an ocean away, or looking down at me — either from heaven or from those photographed moments in time

That Home