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October 25, 2006

Your place, with its salmon pink scrubbed bath; smelling of detergent and pot pouris and tasting of hot water flannels and warm air and heated cotton towels.Your place, with its glass eye windows, punched like cut out holes in paper, made by a child to channel the sun. Where you vacuum everyday and wax and dust. Your place, where even now, you are watching television, cradled in the sofa that you bought from Chippingham. Where you would always fold me up in line dried sheets that smelt of wind and lavender. Where you and dad are living like you always have and lying down together, carefully and gently, night after night after night. Your place. This place. Their place. Which once was mine and now is not.


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