Saying sorry to the Tesco man every time he came with a delivery,
Bet you don’t have to climb the stairs too often to get to the kitchen!
The fresh smell of bleach every Saturday at lunchtime,
The faded yellow gloves laying by the sink.
The old giraffe measuring board in the kitchen,
Twenty years’ worth of names on that board now and the odd lie because some stood
On their tippy toes
(Even though I pushed their heads down, mischief in their grins.)
The smell of Mum’s favourite flowers and her Flowerbomb perfume
Along with Dad’s old and trusted Lacoste aftershave.
The little scraps of meat secretly fed to Delilah
Underneath the table. Childhood.
It was a sunny day,
The day Mum came home and sat at the table, Dad on the sofa,
My damp, fidgety hands in my lap as Rua drove to Matalan,
Waiting patiently and impatiently to be told to come back.
The Bridie’s curry-chip on the dusty old chair,
The IKEA magazine on the red flimsy table,
I was still in my uniform,
But the nerves had now calmed underneath the blazer and tie.
I remember coming home to Mum,
Her puffy, red eyes and my uncle leaving without saying a word as I came through the door.
Suddenly ‘home’ felt like ‘Homes’
But really,
It felt like I had none.
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