the house still reminds me of my grandmother
in spite of the work. it’s not that she lived here
but the shell of thick paint which enamels each door
is exactly the same as in her house. (a three hour drive with the new
opened motorway – five hours when she was alive).

it’s friday. my saturday is free. the tiler is doing the kitchen
tomorrow – we move in next weekend. I still plan to sand down
the doors and the stairwell and hardwood. the smell of cut sawdust
and plasterboard settles
on everything like flocks of city gulls.

this is the first place we’ve owned and we got it at asking.
I’m a friend of the agent and our offer
was timed against probate. I’m an age when everyone
is trying to buy houses. most of my friends
are having trouble. some have kids.
my cousin is living in my grandmother’s place
with a girlfriend. she’d hate what they’ve done.
the books are arranged by their colour on the bookshelves
and there’s not a single picture of christ.