The house

My…haven’t you’ve grown.

I stood there in the doorframe, wondering if I should enter this house or not. The smell was still there. Oatmeal and my father’s musk settled on each couch cushion, traveled up the flight of stairs and nestled into the reading chair next to the window. A lot of times when you go home, you notice the things that have always been there but now they are distinct. The way the floor creaks outside of the bathroom. The way you can hear the pipes running from the downstairs kitchen sink, all the way to the walls of your room.
I like to think home never changes, and sometimes I tell lies saying that it hasn’t.
During summer, my mother used to open the small window in our cramped  kitchen. The tiny embroidered (and thrifted) curtains blew in and out with the wind. When I was about nine years old, I knew my mother had just made blueberry pie or lemon cake. The scent would travel down the porch steps and settle right in front of our house. The neighborhood kids knew when she made desserts too.
“Oh, Miss. You’re so nice and beautiful,” one of the kids said while twisting their waist side to side. With their hands clasped together, one foot making a circle on the floor, each kid knew how to ask for a slice of what My mother made.
My mother would offer them a nice sized slice and a glass of milk. My mother made sure if you asked, you would sit at the table – properly.

One day I’ll write another piece to hook on to Repercussions of Loving Too Deep.

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