A house where you lived once.


A house where you lived once.
Somewhere, despite everyone else who lived in it before or after you, inside it and outside it are fragments of your existence there.
A handprint on a wall, buried beneath paint and wallpaper.
A dent in the woodwork from crashing a toy car.
Atoms of carbon dioxide exhaled from all the family embedded in the plasterwork.
A strand of hair swept into the gap under a skirting board.
A nail on the wall where a picture was hung in the 1970s.
A place the people who would become your parents went back to after a date.
Plastic toy soldiers buried in the garden.

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