My grandma’s house is no longer her house;
It’s been a year but I still think of it.
I’m homesick for a place that is no more;
I’m homesick for a place I cannot go.

The daffodils will be flower’ing by now
This year’s the first year I won’t see them bloom.

I miss the smell of dust that made me sneeze,
The wobb’ly stones that lined the garden’s side,
The quiet of a house where time stood still,
And walls that watched us grow from year to year.

The long hall that I’d race my sister’s down
The sunsets from the light-filled sitting room.
The sharp and tangy scent of ancient plants
Collected all in the conservatory.

The attic where we’d fall asleep at night
Whose walls we painted twelve summers ago.
The mulb’ry tree whose berries we would pick
And stain our fingers and our lips and cheeks.

And now the house is there but she is not,
And strangers walk the rooms she used to own.