'Living Room' by Marie Little

They keep telling me that the old lady died. 

It happened in our new living room.

The electric bar fire met with the sofa as she slept.

It's a sad story, but an important one - my children's ears prick up each time. 

The doorhandles are all brand new because they bubbled, held on to the smell. 

But I do not need to hear about the past. 

The living room is full of our boxes, a small bike, the box marked 'KETTLE AND TEABAGS!' - somewhere. 

The children buzz about upstairs, excited by newfound cupboards, nails left in walls, the view from the bathroom. 

Neighbours queue up more stories outside, with homemade cakes. 

I begin to unpack.