Oh how I cling to the memory
of how our world used to be.
The only house that ever really felt like home.
Our horse chestnut tree.
Patio doors where Dad used to mess around,
pretend his reflection was floating.
Austin Maestro parked in the driveway.
Bouncing a ball in the alley.
I still remember the echo it made
as it bounced off the red brick.
Our little blue bathroom.
Your bath pearls in an old shell,
I can still remember their scent,
the way I would turn them in my fingers,
daring one to burst.
Sitting at the breakfast bar,
watching the snow fall.
Playmobil on the draining board,
their own private ski slope.
Bounding into your bedroom.
How you used to wrap the duvet
so tightly around your face.
I would nestle in-between you,
your happy faces wishing me good morning.
You would let me drag you downstairs
to watch ‘Sharky & George’.
You would fall asleep,
and I would nudge you furiously,
“You’re missing it!!”
And when the snow fell,
we would build the tallest snowman
I had ever seen.
And afterwards, we’d sit on a sheepskin rug
with a hot Ribena.
We’d watch ‘The Snowman’,
while the cat slept soundly
under the Christmas tree.
And while you both moved on
to live your separate lives
with your new spouses,
I am still here,
reliving my treasured memories.
It isn’t your fault,
I just got stuck, you see.
I still tend to the same cacti you had on the landing,
I have two of them in my house.
I kept my Playmobil mother and father,
they still live together.
I still drink hot Ribena, when the snow falls.
I still eat beef spread sandwiches with crisps in the middle.
I still have my Glo Worm.
I still watch our old TV shows,
precious soundtracks stored on my phone.
On Christmas Eve, I got our old photos out
to look at our snowman.
I sent you a message from across the seas
to tell you how I miss you so.
I wonder if you felt the same ache that I feel.
And somehow I must unstick myself,
I know I should move along now.
For everybody knows,
one cannot dwell in the past.
It’s just that nowhere else has felt quite like home,
since those days.
no face woman © 2017