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For visually challenged writers, the image shows deeply worn stone steps, scattered with plants growing in the cracks, leading up to a blue-painted door.
The steps were the same as they had always been, smiling in greeting to all who approached the threshold.
Ma took pride in keeping them clean, but the weeds were starting to tease their way through the cracks.
The third and fourth step had been repaired. It was a good job, clinical, clean and crisp lines, totally out of keeping with the wavy worn risers above and below them. No-one would dare carve their initials in the wet concrete or make their mark with coloured chalks and rows of kisses as she had as a child.
The panelled door was new. Gone was the sturdy black and white stripes and oval glass the same as every other house in the street. The letter box was in the centre, not at the bottom. How she remembered the postie moaning about having to bend, though usually there was at least one of Ma’s brood sitting on the steps to take in the mail.
She could almost hear the laughter and singing that always came from within. The smell of fresh bread or pastries, cakes and biscuits that she and her siblings would dispatch with haste to the other residents on a Saturday afternoon for a few shillings.
The door to number 25 opened and she was brought back to the present as a young mum with a toddler in tow and a babe in a pram came out. She smiled at the elderly woman in the black limousine at the kerb.
The houses had all changed hands and the new owners made a lot of improvements.
Yes, Ma was long gone, but she would never forget her roots. She waved at the little family and settled back into the plush interior.
‘You can take me home now Watts,’ she told the driver.
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