There is a house up for sale on Inglis Court
It has red brick and white windows with black shutters
The carpet has been deep cleaned, the furniture emptied out
I ponder, the things its new owners will not know about
That I walked that rugged driveway, its heat on my small bare feet
and drew my name in chalk, with rainbows and blocks for hopscotch
How many times I opened that front door to the scent of cod,
calling for my grandmother, footsteps shaking porcelain cherubs
That the kitchen had been filled with groaning, swollen bellies
stuffed with basted fish, toutons, and corned beef hash
How many times I checked the fridge for items I would never find
with unsealed margarine containers holding other food inside
That the dining room once contained newspapers and plates
with bitten toast and marmalade, and the scent of half-drunk tea
How many times that cherry grove antique table had seen
my grandfather, me, and a ten-dollar bill snuck underneath
That the bedroom doors creaked along with the shuffle of feet
down the hall and across green carpet after a bad night’s dream
How many times I lay between my grandparents’ heat
and let the pendulum clock tick, tick, tick me to sleep
Now it stands stripped bare, as if we were never there
An echoing blank canvas, where hearts used to reside
There is a house up for sale on Inglis Court
I realize, a house becomes a home by the memories made inside
Kayla Doyle is a writer and paralegal from Toronto, Ontario. She currently works for the Government of Canada and is a third year B.A. Honours English student at Carleton University. She has previously received degrees in both Law and Psychology. Kayla has been writing since she was thirteen years old, and currently lives in Ottawa, Ontario with her husband and son.
