Snowstorm

There is a house that is being sold.

I find myself walking through it some nights, listening to the familiar sounds of the clock, the boiler, the creaking floorboards, a dinner gong that’s never used at dinner.

There is a familiar smell of dust, or rather a smell of familiar dust.

In the rooms are frozen moments: conversations, meals, games of mahjong. Two chairs, both empty now, loom in my head with their people: crosswords and crisps in one, patchwork and coffee in the other. Beside them an open fire burns, and all the dogs and cats of the past lie in front of it, stretched flat in contentment.

I open the kitchen cupboard. There is Bovril and a tin of ox-tail soup. There are plain crisps and side by side, boxes of cornflakes and Fruit and Fibre. There is thick-cut marmalade, Bisto, English mustard, a forgotten jar of beetroot from a raffle.

Past a barometer that we habitually tap and upstairs across a soft beige carpet: the bathroom. There’s the smell of muscle rub and toothpaste caught in a whirl of shower steam. There’s a low rumble as the door slides shut and a click as I slide the bolt.

Outside we collect conkers and roll Easter eggs; we play swing ball and eat long summer lunches. Outside, the animals are buried with handmade headstones and the shade of their favourite trees.

It is outside I stand now, watching it all whirl and settle to the ground, a soft blanket of memory.

I turn slowly and pad, barefoot, back into myself.