In my parent’s house I obey the sign that says: NO SHOES NO EXUSES before mounting the stairs. There’s a smell of apple crumble, my favorite, coming from the kitchen; Sweet cinnamon, brown sugar, nutmeg even; and although these aren’t the stairs I used to climb back then, I am thrown into childhood. Then, all of my Sundays were dominated by Sunday- School first, Sunday dinner next and the delicious desserts that followed.
I hug my mum who is sat up in bed and hope the smell of mints and white musk is stronger than roll ups. Sweet soap and powder waft upwards from her cheeks, her robe. The room is drenched in the yellow of the afternoon. My mum is soft and warm to the touch with arms that feel like a chocolate cake that I take out of the oven too soon.

“You alright?” she asks, her voice a soothing melody. “How’s the boys?” It’s important to her that we are well. And also as proof that her connection with Jesus was still intact.
“They are fine,” I say.”I told them to stay downstairs. You’ll see them in a minute.”
“Good, good”, she adjusts herself now, readying herself to get up.
“How come you in bed though’ mum?”
“Oh, I was jus’ resting before arllyou come.” ‘All of you’ was just one word, with an r in the middle of the word all. “Arllyou”, mum would say, Trinidad still resident in her words.
"It's not like you to be the first to arrive,” she says
"I know." I reply. "I needed to speak with you first."
 I walk over and make sure the bedroom door is fully closed behind me.