Butter and silk smooth on my skin, I remember my feigned scoff and sigh of disapproval; the fragrance of jasmine and oils lingering on my hands, kneading into my sore palms and coarse knuckles- the infamous, ludicrous hand creams.
The palpable smell of basil, the concoction of spices and tomatoes, I remember the background buzz of the microwave, the clatter of the cutlery; as we dined like king and queen over a magnificent feast of burnt rice and watery curry.
Home is where we built blanket forts and fought over bed-time extensions, I remember the twinkling stars in the night skies and in the soft songs; it was cherished like bath-time bubbles and tear-free shampoo, the smell of artificial peach and strawberry that flooded the room.
My nose tingles and my eyes well with tears, I remember the peculiar tug at my heart that day; it smelled sweet like icing on cake, warm like burning wood, it was home like burnt curry and shampoo, and love like the ludicrous jasmine hand creams that I will never not refuse.
