At number four the key was turned, a house which was built between the wars.

It looked older than I remember. A fleeting viewing with an impatient vendor.

The house feels cold, a smell of damp plaster. A floorboard creaked as did each one after.

Red wine carpet, covers hall and stair. Threadbare in the middle from the wear and tear.

Within a month the house was cleared. Of carpets, doors, and oak walled veneers.

The bedrooms first then we work our way down. Plastered walls are now a wet, terracotta brown.

In the hallway behind, repainted Anaglypta. A pencilled history of a brother and sister.

In feet and inches, dated each September. Then off to school, would they remember?

Son and daughter stand against the wall. The sound of laughter fills the hall.

We mark their heights then the wall is papered. Awaiting the next custodians redecoration.

Cracks in walls, can be filled and painted. Carpets changed, rooms decorated.

Each soul remains when, the house becomes a home. From persons living and persons gone.