Sometimes I step into the wrong hallway,
and a smell hits me.
Its far away, barley there,
and suddenly I can feel my mother's hands in my hair.
I can see the rays of summer's sun filtering beneath my cousin's eyes and colouring them hazel.
I stare in awe, and she paints my nails, as I lie with my cheek against the wooden floor.
I am watching my father, taller than he ever was, and the tea I've spilled is turning cold against the table.