Her breath quickened and her pulse raced as she set foot on the familiar porch. Hands gripping the railing of the wooden porch reminded her of the way she would stand there, waiting for her dad to come home after a long, arduous day at work.
Inhaling deeply, she could recall the wafting aroma of fresh bread that her mother would take out of the oven. Eyes misting over, she closed them to remember how her brother would wriggle out of her grasp, every single time the ice cream truck clattered down the beaten path at the end of their driveway.
Glancing sideways, another memory rose up. Mr. Simmons, from the house next door, who always smiled at them. She remembered how he’d invite them all over for high tea and tell them jokes. The friendly neighbour, that was him.
She could just as easily recall the way his fingers snaked into her blouse that April afternoon. And the way she looked up in shock. Or the way she fled that house. And the way she locked herself in her room and cried all alone.
Or the day she smiled when he breathed his last.
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