House Call

I would love to go back to that house just one more time. To the couch where my boots took forever to unlace. To the upstairs room where my head banged against the wall. To the stairs I would trip down in the mornings, to the table where I would pour milk and brown sugar into my porridge. To the living room where many plans were made, to the bathroom where my spare toothbrush lived. To the backyard where I would empty coffee grounds into the garden, to the shower where I would be sure to drop the soap. To two dogs who welcomed me, to the clothes rack with the lace dress hanging between checked shirts. To the park across the road to sit in the sunshine, to the pub where it was still possible to kiss and make up. To the door I once had a key to, to the place where everything seemed magical again...

I don't even remember the last time I was there. I didn't know it was the last time, thought that I would be back again soon. But I remember the first time, and the good times, and the strange times. My bus drives straight past the motorbike cafe where we never did get lattes, past the camping store where we ran amuck. And I try not to look out the window. But I know that from time to time, when I walk the back way to Uni, I will still glance over to where it all began and hope to catch a shadow...