I stood on the doorstep for quite some time, just staring at the brass door knob. I remember going in and out of this door so many times before. As a child I loved the blood red color of it, making it obvious this is my door. This is my home.
It is no longer my home. I no longer know or understand the man and woman behind the bright red door. Nor do they understand me.
I can almost smell the aroma of bread baking as I told my parents I was dropping out of university to become a street performer. Ever since I could travel alone I've been going to the South Bank to watch these marvelously talented people perform for their life. And it was my turn to be one of those people.
It's been 3 years since I've crossed that threshold. 3 years since I've spoken to either one of them.
Through a cousin I've come to hear of my mother's illness and although my presence may not be wanted, I feel it's needed. I cannot let her go without her knowing my respect for bringing me up. She may not accept me, and I will not apologize for who I am, but I will still tell her of my love for her.
I take a final deep breath and open the big red door, walking into the scent of freshly made bread.
[Promp: Write about someone you saw on the bus or tube.]
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