My Old House

Whenever I visit my hometown, I drive past our old house. 

I never tell anyone I go. It’s my quiet ritual, my favourite part of the visit. 

I drive along the road that I walked to school on every day, I remember the heat of summer afternoons, my feet swollen and my uniform damp with sweat. 

There’s a park along the way where we used to stop. 
I had my first kiss there, with a boy I no longer speak to. 
We’re not even friends on Facebook. 

When I got home, my mother always had frozen yoghurt waiting in the freezer. 
She said ice cream had too much sugar. 
The yoghurt was bland, but if I was lucky, she’d blend raspberries into it. 
I’d sit on the driveway, spoon in hand, a line of red blooming across my nose as I squinted into the sun. 

I’d wait for the weather to shift from oppressive heat to the cooler warmth of evening. 
Back then, evening felt like the beginning of a second day. 
Without the sun beating down, life felt lighter.  

That feeling escapes me now. 

Words by Tao Gower-Jones