She still sings when she cooks.
And when I am home I wake to her voice
And when I am home I wake to her voice and the smells that lure me out of my now bare room.
She is as bright as the morning sun
She is as bright as the morning sun that pours in like honey.
And I am taken back to when I was small.
The smell of my mother’s cooking being breathed in deeply.
I am happy to be here,
I am happy to be here. My first home.