By Lynsey Balloch
Our beloved house has been snug and warm,
For well over thirteen years,
Quiet road, spotless windows,
And a blooming rosebush out front.
Just me alone, for the final night,
A wistful wander through walls, floors and ceilings,
Infused with first days at school, birthday candles,
Belly laughs and squabbles galore.
Electrics off, curtains tugged from rungs,
The familiar scent of powdery freesias,
Gradually dissolving out of rooms,
Now gutted and only half-familiar.
Kids off at Gran’s for the night,
All packed away, all at peace,
Despite the distant sound of chuntering,
From the nearby railway track.
“I’ve never liked this house!”
My strong-willed eldest exclaimed,
When I gently broke the news,
We’d soon be on the move.
Her sister nodding vigorously,
Eyes brimming with emphatic innocence,
Harking back to days they’d youthfully scream,
Of make-believe sinking feelings and shadowy corners.
I chuckle, when sunrise brings it’s rosy glow,
Taking in home for the last time,
Ending in the empty, brightening bedroom,
Where I watched my children grow.
It’s only now I see it, right there.
The outline of a man’s face,
Imprinted in the window, grinning at me.
From the inside.