I don’t know how many times I have sung Depeche’s Mode “Home”. Including one night in Milan, many years ago, with a man with a bare, tattooed torso and thousands of Italians who knew every word.
This morning was different. My son was in the back seat of the car, we were on our way to Valletta for our Saturday morning walk. Instinctively, my fingers cranked the volume up, as soon as the first notes punched my chest. And Jacob and I sang it aloud, in communion, all the way from the Porte des bombes to Lascaris Wharf.
Sometimes, just for a few moments, this place still feels like home.