Watching the days turn to nights
And the nights growing darker from my bedroom window
I think how I shall miss the little things of home.
The orange, crockery clad kitchen with a warm aga resting at its heart
The incompetent ‘bin’ in the cupboard, into which we play Jenga on Saturday afternoons with litter,
and Tetrus in the baking cupboard.
Mama never liked order anyway.
The creaky floorboards in the hall that tell you when someone pauses to gaze into the dark mirror, or stare into the glass bottle case.
The Christmas wrapping paper that has been used three times already and smells slightly of mould due to its storage in the under-stairs cupboard. Nostalgic, because its scent is also that of Papa’s Cinefilms.
The snug living room that has special long velvet curtains that hide French doors. Barely used.
‘The Den’, all blue, refreshing;
Dad’s room which smells of fusty books and pipe tobacco,
huge and ancient maps adorn the walls and the sound of swallows nesting outside pervade the room through large, sash windows.
The huge, hot shower in the bathroom has heard many songs and poems recited, like a recording booth.
The bath too, has healed many of my hurts.
The intimate nook in the garden
next to the pond and under the small willow tree,
where one feels eventually part of nature.
The range of obscure teas home has,
the colourfulness of home
the bone chilling cold of home in the winter when draughts blow between skirting boards and floor,
The whistling of the wind on the corner of the house outside my bedroom;
it feels wonderfully comforting.
I will miss these things of home
the familiarity and warmth.
I will miss home
Written: October 2013