I Say Thank You

I've been wondering  what to say to the house I'm leaving.  I tried this:


Thank you for having me.


It didn't seem enough.  So I tried this:


Thank you that it's me you have had, here, within these walls, these lovely rooms and garden.


Thank you for giving me shelter, for the leaking roof, for all the warmth and draughts.  Thank you for the silence, the birdsong, the Saturday night revellers.  Thank you for the wisteria, the damson tree, the ground elder, the bindweed. Thank you for facing to the north, and sheltering your garden to the south.  Thank you for being my children's first sanctuary, their first playground, their first sickbay, their first studio, their first theatre, their first accident site, their first library, their first battleground, their first concert hall, their first dance floor.


When they were young, I danced my sons around the living room to the theme from Zorba the Greek.  I danced with my eldest on my hip, whirling around until we fell onto the sofa in giggles.  When the time came, my second son took his place in one arm, whilst I held his brother's hand, and we circled around and around the carpet, dizzier and dizzier.


Today, I haven't known how to say goodbye to this house.  I tried saying more:


Thank you for being a place of laughter, of desperation, of joy, of sorrow, of contentment, of adventure, of emptiness, of hope.  Thank you for the company, the loneliness, the deep connections, the arguments.  Thank you for the sleep, the dreaming, the wakefulness, the growing, the rest and weariness  Thank you for yesterday, last year, the last twenty-two years.  Thank you for today - for the hugging, the roast chicken, Kate Bush and Bach.  Thank you for tomorrow.


But even this wasn't enough for all that is in my heart, so I asked for music.  To my surprise, within seconds I was tapping my feet.  And it was as if my body knew what I wanted to say at last, as I picked myself up, danced through the rooms once more.
Zorba The Greek Theme