There was so much empty space

Around us, when we moved in.

All those white walls, freshly scrubbed

Down to the cracks and scotch-tape

Marks the previous tenants had been

So kind to leave us. The tightly-shut

Taps in the bathrooms cast an unfriendly look

And it took a few days, for our beds

To feel slept in, for the washing to hang,

Properly, on the line. We liked

The neighbours and they smiled

Every time we encountered them

On the stairs. The ones whose names

We exchanged for the spare key even

Stopped, to chat. In the end, we left

Not only space behind, but friends

And bible studies, and kisses and plays

That our free time forced us into.

And what was strange was this;

We didn't bump into anyone,

Running down those stairs with our

Bookshelves and old chests, and

When we left, as quietly as we'd come,

There were no dramatic farewells,

Nor any romantic adieus that

My sister and I might have hoped for.

After all, this meant more than months

And years, but nearly a quarter of

Our childhood. But we didn't weep either,

Because it was, as they say, time.

We also never missed, since home

Isn't something rented anymore, and

We're never far away. In fact,

I could go back in just a walking minute.


I think I did a Kaavya with "we didn't weep". But like her, I'll have to say it was unintentional.