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I walk up the front steps to the communal entranceway. Before I go into the close, I see that the
hedge in the front garden needs cutting. I see its uneven, messy shape, and I want to get the shears
out to cut it.

I continue on to the front door and I take out my key. I open the heavy door, and I am greeted by the
smell of my mother͛s perfume (͞Must͟ by Cartier), and face cream (I remember it was called ͞Astral͟
and came in a big blue tub). It is not an overpowering smell, it is delicate, and clean; it is warm and
feminine. It makes me feel safe and loved. I sometimes use that same face cream myself, and am hit
by a burst of nostalgia every time.

I close the door behind me and walk down the hall, turning left into the small kitchen. I feel the heat
from the oven and I know that homemade lasagne is cooking. I go to the window and see the
washing on the line in the back garden and I remember my cousin and me wrestling with bed sheets
and towels as a huge storm began, and our mothers, incapacitated by laughter, taking photos
through the window, our 10-year-old faces flushed with exhilaration and cold in equal measure.

I turn away from the window and the memory and I see a large yellow mixing bowl on the work
surface; its bevelled and glazed form was the container of countless pancake and cake mixes.

I walk through the small hallway and into my mother͛s bedroom. This was always my favourite
room. It was a treasure trove of beautiful dresses, scarves, high-heeled shoes, makeup, perfume,
and jewellery. It͛s wall to wall mirrored wardrobes were my haven ʹ my catwalk. I would dress up in
my mum͛s best dresses and shoes, piling on jewellery and makeup, stuffing the chest of whichever
dress I had on and pretending to be a grown-up. I was in such a hurry to grow up. Now I wish I could
turn back the hands of time, go back to those days, and relive every moment.

I look around one last time, taking in the bed, the dressing table, the mirrors, and with a heavy heart,
I leave, walking back down that small hallway, out through the heavy front door, and back into the
cold damp air. I stand alone, an adult; wishing I were that child again. Wishing I could hear my
mother͛s voice. Wishing I could run into her embrace and be held by those strong arms. Wishing I
could rest my head on her lap and feel her hands stroke my hair. Wishing I could drift off to a
dreamless sleep, where I am secure in the knowledge that when I wake she will still be there.
Wishing I could feel that feeling just one last time, before I have to return to the reality I now
inhabit.