I make a mug of tea and butter a slice of toast and am not surprised by her smile, years before and right there, waiting for me with the sound of The Express being folded, crossword almost completed, as she rises for a kiss and a 'hello love', and the trusted 'I've got the kettle on'.
We hug and I sit as she stands and takes down two mugs, just as she recalls something or another that she meant to give me last visit and now wonders where she placed for safe keeping for this moment - and she's gone,
leaving me sitting in the kitchen resting in the familiarity of her calls from the other room telling me she'll find it in a sec and chiding herself, until her cry of finding and her return
with something of my dad's that she thought I'd like or perhaps a grey photo, with a young me, head sliced to fit a frame long discarded, but having left its trace with a stain of Sellotape
- and then we talk of nothing but people and happenings that left family stains we cherish for the pictures they conjure and for the bond left undiminished by time and if anything made stronger by any mug of tea and toast and the still-left-unlocked front door always ready to receive me with a 'hello love' from deep within the home that stayed open forever and now keeps a space open for memories and a silent undertaking that I'll somehow perpetuate this welcome.