Not Just an Address

We read three poems Called Three Addresses, by Terence Winch, and then were asked to write about an address where we had once lived. There would have been many to choose from but 41 Canfield Gardens came instantly to mind [as things do with prompts for writing], a maisonette converted from the top two floors of a victorian London terraced house. I have no photos, but I certainly have memories, stashed in my mind forever.

So many steps and stairs

I grew up.
I was supposed to be already grown.

Memories of elsewheres, before,
are just events, even important ones
like children being born, learning to walk,
somewhere, elsewhere in homes
with doors and floors, pots, pans, plates
chairs, tables beds and their own flights of stairs.

Here I fell into care
knowing the gap behind these stairs
would hold the hoover, where it stayed silent
along with dusters and brushes, winter jackets
until it came out humming, helping pride grow,
dust motes from the sun, stirred and banished.

Here the french doors on the sitting room
opened to two feet of concrete balcony
looked down on the garden of the basement flat
where I stood tall, breathing London air
playing gardener in window boxes
where sometimes lettuce grew and bright geraniums.

My sons grew there too
The third one born in that big bed
with a Heal’s mattress bought in the sale,
a space for him in the family
a room made from the too big bathroom
toilet and bath in new space found under the roof.

Was it the house, the bricks,
those sometimes endless steps and stairs?
Was it the garden or the window sills?
Or was it just me, my time to flower?
Become aware, learn to care,
Discover pleasures felt in house that’s home.