We fear the unknown, so cling to the familiar,

I realise this as I, for the last time, survey my haven, my home,

My bed, whose mattress effortlessly moulds to meet the curve of my body,

My bedroom wall, splashed with photographic memories, skiing, sailing, sixth form, good times past,

Next door, the scruffy bathroom where I obsessively brushed my teeth with my faithful toothbrush,

Just outside, those two landing steps, where friends and I chattered continuously, ignoring the school bell,

Overhead lies the attic, bursting with fragments of treasured childhood fun,

Ground floor: that cold, laminate floor, now warm, which echo’s my mum’s flustered heels every workday morning,

My daily porridge breakfast, the juicy fruit, mine and mine alone,

That backdoor, touched by the history of the frequent knocking hands of loved ones,

The grotty yard beyond, host to happy barbeques, paddling pools, parties, water fights,

The living room I hold most dear, where we four sat entwined, devouring box set after box set,

generating inside jokes and laughs that we recycled again and again.

As one door closes, another opens, or so they say,

But as I relish the memory of me and my sister gossiping and giggling,

the bedtime stories, games, deep revealing talks with my dad in the spare room,

savor the security of my mum’s hug,

I wonder, as my refuge’s walls ooze innocent joy and cherished tales,

how on earth am I going to be able to leave my sanctuary behind?