Every room here reminds me of you; every ornament or piece of furniture that hasn’t moved since you left, in the house where Grandpa still lives, the house I’ve always known.
The sense of you lingers in the air, enveloping everything you once touched, arranged or observed. Every corner evokes a memory. Now, the places I haven't entered in years carry a strange magic. There’s a stillness present that has grown from your absence.
My senses sharpen. The smell of the summer house on a hot day, the soft fabric of the duvet cover, the sound of the piano you used to play for me, the call of the wood pigeons in the garden and the secrets held amongst your favourite flowers.
In the familiarity of the winding garden path and the stillness of the bed where I used to dream, the reveries of my childhood are awakened. Each curtain fold reveals an intricate maze of feeling, created at a time when we both stood in their presence.
With a deep melancholy I re-enter your world, I feel you yet I am unable to talk to you. Every inch of wallpaper or flooring, every smell and touch is so personal. In this place I can almost hear your voice, feel your hand on the back of my head.
Just as I cannot separate you from these spaces, I cannot remove this place from myself.