My mum moved house last month, out of the family home where we had lived for more than 20 years.
I took these photos during the move, feeling restless and strange about the house being emptied of everything that had meant ‘home’ since I was a child.
I’ll miss the squeaky step at the bottom of the stairs, the front door that would never shut properly unless you shoved it like you were furious with someone, the cold terracotta-coloured tiles, the kitchen walls that must bear at least five much-deliberated-over layers of paint, the strange noises that emanated from the attic at night, the weird palm tree out the back garden, the shed full of random odds and ends, the tree whose branch I used to swing from, the mossy driveway, my old bedroom, the walk from the bus stop to the house that felt shorter and less scary the older I got.
Still, to new beginnings. There will be another house I’ll love somewhere else, soon.
