Hall

You wouldn't know it
the house turning ghost white
I remember you
treading in the paint tray
lying back - a red footprint
in the air.
When we were kids
we played aeroplanes.
Your legs outstretched
my belly on the flats of your feet
my arms spread wide.
Mother says white
is not a practical colour
for the hall.
I am covering every trace
in three coats, four
where you, slaphappy
called it Passionate, Intense.
I remember the footprint
how you pressed it here
beside the doorframe.
Even under all the white
I think I can see.
Your heel.
Your toes.
The wide band joining them
perfectly.