Your house, a reminder of silly little things,

Memories jogged, and comfort they bring.

Of family dinners and After Eight mints,

Up on the typewriter, with letters to print.

 

Playing in the garden, you sitting on the bench,

These memories that still, make my heart clench.

Chantal and I playing recorder, we were really quite bad,

You’d still cheer wildly at the end, we thought you were mad!

 

Cooking in the kitchen, your head poked through the hatch,

Banging the cutlery, leaving a scratch.

Us chanting out loud while we waited for food,

Then eating in silence, no time to chat while we chewed.

 

In later years I would stop by on my way to work,

Folding those sheets, used to make you berserk.

I’d leave extra time so we could sit and chatter,

On good days you’d love a biscuit and a natter.

 

Your house is a bubble, everything pristine,

It’s funny, but I still want to come in and clean.

To keep it tidy and ordered, as it has been for years,

It is was left to ruin, it would bring you to tears.

 

Soon it won’t be yours and that feeling is strange,

I’m not sure how to feel about all this change.

I hope that a family makes new memories here,

In this home, in this house, that I hold so dear.