The House Remembers

the first time you walked in,

eight years old and already missing

everyone from the cul-de-sac.

It can still hear the way you cried

until the first day at your new school,

when you came home laughing

to tell your parents about 

all your new friends.

The house remembers

how you grew 

more beautiful every day;

how through teenage years

boys would hover

at the end of the drive

hoping for a glimpse.

The house remembers

how much your parents missed you 

when you left for university, 

even though you came back

every other weekend;

how the quiet while you were gone

fled into its corners

the moment you got back.

The house remembers

the night before your wedding:

how glasses were raised 

and no-one slept for worrying.

The house remembers

the day you came back for good,

contracts exchanged, solicitors paid,

with six-month-old twins

and a husband in tow.