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A view of my parent-in-law's house from the bottom the back garden. To my eyes, both from the front and the back, the house seemed to blend with the surrounding trees making what was quite a large home seem a lot smaller.

Looking at it on Sunday, it seemed even more diffuse. Almost as if it was being subsumed by the surrounding trees. Perhaps this vanishing was just an emotional response to the upcoming change, but there was a certain bittersweetness to this view compounded by an apprehension that the developers would cut down these lovely trees to fashion their new project.

I returned to the house to regain some sense of concreteness.

Here is the bedroom where my wife and I stayed every time we came to visit. I will not again blink at shafts of light angling in beneath the blinds on a bright, lazy, morning. Or listen to the sound of the late night TV and conversation from downstairs as I wait to drop off during an early bedtime.

No more early cups of lemon tea and wading through the morning paper. Classical music in the kitchen. Dozing on the sofas.

It's good to have such memories, but too soon for them have settled in my mind. They feel as jumbled as the boxes and bags collecting in the living room for us and, later, the movers. They'll rearrange in good time.

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