But this was the first house we’d ever bought. In fact, the only house we’ve ever bought. 

This was the house where my children spent the largest portion of their childhood. They all had their ‘first day of school’ photos taken on the east-facing front porch, squinting into the morning sun. (Upon reflection, that was probably not the perfect spot.)

They all developed excellent upper-body strength swinging on a rope that hung from the eucalypt in the corner of the garden, and one cricket season my eldest wore a track up the side yard due to his bowling run-up.

I know that the unsightly mark on the kitchen bench was from the time I put a saucepan of freshly made popcorn straight onto the surface.

There’s a dent in the dining room ceiling from the night my friend uncorked a bottle of champers with too much abandon.

And you can still faintly see, through an inadequate layer of paint, where my daughter used to write in texta on the wall beside her mattress after bedtime. (She’s artistic, all right?)

I know where the dust always collected, the damp would rise, and the roof would leak.

I also know where the shadows of tree limbs would play on the wall in the late afternoon, and at what time of year the lowering sun would illuminate the tips of the lavender bushes, turning them from mauve to gold.

And if you dig only slightly below the surface in one corner of the garden, you’ll be bound to find 10-year-old polystyrene balls from the Great Beanbag Disaster of 2008.

I know I’m supposed to subscribe to all that guff about memories being in your heart, not in real estate, and the people you love being your true home. But I think we underestimate the power of place – to connect us to our past, and to make us feel at home.